


Joie de Vivre

by GasDancer



Series: Young Volcanoes [1]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, French Studio, Hand Jobs, M/M, Morning Sex, Rimming, Sharing a Bed, TAOTU, basically Alex is a human disaster and Miles is bad at French and other human languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GasDancer/pseuds/GasDancer
Summary: "Two young men decamp to rural France to make an album together. It ~is like love."





	1. confiance

**Author's Note:**

> Woo! Finally posting this lol, I've been trying to get that story out my head since the summer. Part One is the main story, and it's gonna focus on them recording taotu in France. The rest are gonna be some snippets from Humbug and SIAS (according to the plan at least, and we all know how plans tend to go.)
> 
> I have most of this written, and I plan to update regularly, so no worries there! I was initially gonna start posting once I'd finished, but I figured everyone could use a feel-good boost of pre-TAOTU babies.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't in any way imply that this is what happened in real life, but oh boy wouldn't that be sweet?
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It's their first day in the new recording studio in France. The August sun is bathing the plain around Alex in a warm golden light, and the only sounds around him come from the light breeze shuffling the leaves, and the animals scuffling in the neighbouring farm. He is standing in front of the house that's going to be their domicile and working space for the next two weeks, bags already settled in the room he'll be sharing with Miles, and he takes a long, deliberate breath, letting the warm, fresh air fill his lungs and energise him. 

This album has been a long time coming, and now, they're so close he can practically touch it with his fingertips. Looking back, every step of the way was guiding them here, but a few years back he would never have guessed it. Him and Miles had been writing together for so long, sneaking off to dressing rooms after gigs, setting up camp in each other's houses to test lyrics and chords, playing records Miles got so excited about his ears got pink, but he never imagined all that would amount to anything that big. A verse here, a riff there, and suddenly they ended up with a record's worth of material in their hands, and everyone's teasing words about "their own band" suddenly fell into place. Every song they had felt like a little piece of magic, so different from what he'd been doing with the Monkeys the last few years, and the thought galvanised him, spurred both of them into action. Assembling the team was easy with Alex's previous connections, and now, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, they are here, in sunny France, about to embark on a whole new chapter of their careers. There's no way this golden, heavenly place is going to let them down. They're about to create something memorable in the coming days, he can sense it in the pit of his stomach, and he can hardly wait to get to work with Miles, and sink his teeth into it.

As if on cue, his partner materialises beside him. "Perfect, isn't it?" He says with a toothy grin. Alex sees the same enthusiasm he feels reflected in Miles' hazel eyes, and his confidence scales up another peg. It's impossible for him and Miles to go wrong, not when their minds work like this, in tandem. "It really is, Mi, I'm fucking excited. Are we starting today? I'm kinda eager to begin, to be honest."

Miles' mouth quirks at the corner, while he pries a cigarette packet out of his front pocket. "Slow your roll there, Al. Everyone's still settling in." Alex watches as he pops a fag into his mouth, and lights it. "Careful with that, ey?" He teases. "It's all dry weeds around here. Don't think it'd be appropriate to start a wildfire when we've barely moved in."

Miles snorts out a laugh through the cigarette in his mouth, and swings an arm around Alex's shoulders. "Oh baby, we're gonna start a wildfire alright, and you better be ready for it!" He throws his head back and howls dramatically, and Alex's giggles carry in the vast expanse as he drags Miles inside by the waist, off to explore more of their new residence.

The property is much bigger than they first realized, and they eventually find themselves in the farm adjacent to the main house. They stop for a good while at the chicken pen tossing food and chasing around the chickens, making them cluck and dash around madly on their little legs. It's amusing for a while, but once midday drags on, the novelty wears off, and they find themselves thirsty and dizzy from the sun. "Bloody hell, it's a menace, this." Miles drawls, tugging at his collar to alleviate the heat. "We're not in England anymore, Dorothy." 

Alex smiles, dusting the hay of his jeans. "Wanna head back inside, then?" 

"Yeah, probably." Miles looks down as a particularly fat chicken hobbles off to drink from the water pans. "Feels bad looking at them trotting around, when I know we'll be eating them in a few days."

Alex quirks an eyebrow. "Says the butcher's son."

Miles scoffs in indignation. "Never saw them alive before they arrived at the butcher's shop, did I? This is very different, I'm getting attached!" He pushes closer, and coquettishly links their arms together, guiding them back inside the house. "If I get emotional during dinner I expect you to console me."

Alex shakes his head at the theatrics, and pats Miles on the arm. "I'll do my very best."

They find James waiting for them near the kitchen, hands on his hips like an exasperated mother. "Hey. Don't think we'll get anything done today, Owen's practically passed out and I want to go check out all the panels before we get going properly." His eyes flicker to their interlocked arms, and he cracks a near imperceptible smile. "Be ready tomorrow, ey? No delays."

Alex exaggeratedly stomps his foot and salutes. "Yes sir! We will be, sir!" Beside him Miles chortles, and James just rolls his eyes and heads off with a handwave that says he's not mentally equipped to handle their bullshit at the present moment. "Tomorrow, 9am!"

The kitchen turns out to be lovely in design, and most importantly, cool, so they instantly camp out, and Miles takes to rummaging through the fridge, producing sandwich ingredients and two cold beers with a triumphant smile. Alex's attention, however, is captured by the small bag on the kitchen table. Apparently, James haphazardly left some of his bags here before making off to the studio, and Alex unzips the smaller one, fairly certain of what he'll find.

When Miles turns around with the sandwich in hand, he finds Alex behind James' video camera, red light indicating he's recording. He immediately strikes a pose, hand on waist and sandwich caught seductively between his teeth. Alex giggles, and moves in closer, tightening the frame around Miles' face. "So tell us, Mr Kane, how are you finding France so far?"

Miles exaggeratedly tosses an imaginary strand of hair back, mumbling through a mouthful of ham. "Oh it's lovely, Mr Turner. The studio and the house are excellent, I made friends with some lovely chickens, and I'm about to record amazing music with my best mate. It doesn't get better than that."

"That's wonderful," Alex smile. He shifts his gaze from the small screen of the camera to Miles' face, and quirks a brow. "Do you really think it's gonna be amazing? What if we crash and burn and fail horribly?"

Miles pauses, and locks eyes with him, apparently choosing to take it seriously and shift all levity to the backseat. "We're not gonna fail, Al. It's gonna be amazing, cause it's us."

Alex feels heat bloom in his cheeks at that, and he smiles, dropping his eyes to the tiny Miles on camera again. He seems much easier to make eye contact with. The image of Miles on the screen smiles at him too, and then it turns back to the counter to crack open a beer.

They keep messing around on the camera for the rest of the day, devolving into bad reenactments of action movies. Alex captures some amazing footage of Miles dramatically collapsing on the front lawn after receiving a fatal punch from Alex behind the camera, along with some glamour shots of Miles gazing into the middle distance, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and hair dreamily ruffled by the wind. The camera runs out of battery once the sun settles under the horizon, and they both suddenly become aware of the fatigue creeping into their bones. They had a long journey this morning, and the excitement high is now crashing to the drowsy lull of the evening. Alex carefully puts the camera to charge, and they shuffle off to their joint bedroom.

The space is cosy and warm, Alex observes once he's settled in bed, clad in nothing but his boxers to power through the August heat. The perfect resting corner, all hardwood floors and white flowing curtains. Miles emerges from the bathroom, spindly and long in his gray briefs. From where he's lying down, Alex muses, Miles looks 7 feet tall, a long limbed giant about to gracefully stomp on everything in his path. Alex thinks he wouldn't mind sitting on his shoulder. Said giant plops to the bed a few feet next to Alex with a content sigh, pale legs hanging off the mattress, and a muffled "Night, Al," escapes from somewhere within the nest of pillows. Alex feels a fondness tug at the corners of his lips, as he flicks off the light switch above his bed, setting the room in comforting darkness.

"Goodnight, Miles."


	2. changement

It turns out sleeping in was never an option in the first place. Alex keeps tossing and turning during the night, and when morning crawls through the half-closed curtains, he wakes up to see he's been maniacally scratching himself in his sleep.

"It's probably from the farm." Miles is sitting on the side of his own bed, hair fluffy and sticking out at all angles. Alex can see some faint red lines across his arms and torso as well. "The beds must be full of fleas. Lucky us." He rubs his eyes lazily, and then stretches, arms spreading so wide Alex thinks he might reach the ceiling. "At least we'll never sleep alone, ey?"

They dress up quickly, making a note to change the sheets this evening, and dash to the studio. The first few hours become dedicated to discovering the ins and outs of the equipment, while James excitedly fiddles with the knobs on the panels, gesticulating wildly at a smiling Owen behind the glass divide. Once everyone's curiosity is sated, they settle into position and decide on kicking off with "My Mistakes Were Made For You". Alex's first vocal take goes off without a hitch, and the moment he's done he settles in the sofa outside the booth to watch Miles record the riff. Miles' fingers glide over the strings with confidence, drawing out raw and beautiful sounds as easily as if he could do it with his eyes shut. He probably could, come to think of it. Him and Miles have played before, countless times, but this now, he realizes, feels different. This is  _ theirs.  _ This isn't Miles playing a guest part in Alex's band, or fucking around with covers on long nights during a tour. It isn't an abstract thing they've come up with and tucked away in a drawer, to use wherever fitting. It's official now, he realizes with a thrill that shoots down to his belly. They're creating something of their own here, something that's gonna be only theirs to share, with no one else interfering. Something with their names on it, prominent and equal.  _ Miles Kane and Alex Turner _ . He has the flashing thought that this is how it should always be, but a pang of guilt follows right on its heels. He'd never give up the Monkeys, and he's certain Miles wouldn't wanna leave the Rascals either. However thrilling, he has to keep in mind this is a one-time project.  _ Their little affair,  _ he thinks with a smirk, as Miles lifts his eyes to lock gazes with him through the glass of the booth, fingers never stilling on the guitar. They both grin at each other at the same time, and Alex feels a rush that makes him tingle from head to toe. 

If this is gonna be a singular event, he plans on making the most of it.

This wave of excitement is clearly shared amongst all of them, because they blast through the song, Miles taking up more playing duties and recording the bassline as well, looking perfectly in his element isolated in the little recording booth, hands dancing along the neck with ease. They discuss arrangements with Owen, pop out briefly for lunch and an afternoon coffee, and then return to work invigorated. By the time James feels satisfied enough with the day's job to look up at the clock, it's 7pm.

"I think it's good for today, eh? At that pace we'll have it done by the end of the week." Alex laughs on the way out, and as they're making their way to the main house Miles slides up to him, hugging him from behind and mussing up his hair. "See, numpty? It's all gonna be perfect, I told ya." 

Alex tries hard to suppress a grin while he leans into Miles' side. "I know, I felt it too, but it's just... it's nice to have reassurance sometimes, I suppose."

The hand Miles clasps on his shoulder is firm, steadying, and Alex doesn't miss the implication, even before Miles speaks. "Well, in that case, I hope you're firmly reassured by now."

"As firm as it gets." The smile he shoots back to Miles is filled with everything he struggles to convey with words, and Miles smiles back, understanding. He bumps their heads together, and pulls away to open the door to the front yard, ushering Alex out with a dramatic bow. Alex flicks him on the nose, and emerges into the front yard, stretching his aching arms. 

Miles plops down on one of the patio chairs, propping a long leg on the arm and sliding a ciggie out of his pocket, lighter at the ready. Alex regards him as he slides into the seat across from him, the flame of the lighter casting sharp shadows on his angular face. He looks so at ease like this, he muses, just like he does with everything. Alex never manages it. He tries really hard, fighting to make it seem like he isn't trying at all, but he can't quite get there, to this effortless confidence Miles is exuding. He suspects he never will, either. Miles was born with it, with this magnetic command of himself. Alex is hopeless, clumsy and anxious, the guy who could barely open his eyes to face his very first audience. His gaze travels over Miles' languid form, and for a second he's seized by the uneasy question of how Miles sees him, if he's peered through his cocksure veneer and exposed Alex to his core, all his flaws and faults plain as day to be catalogued, and judged. 

_He's still here_, a whisper in his head reminds him, not unkindly. They've written many songs together, talked endlessly, unburdened themselves in dark hotel rooms during long, drunken nights after gigs, stretching well into the morning._ He knows who I am, and maybe he doesn't hate it. _

"Staring is impolite, Alex." Alex's attention snaps sharply back to the present, and he realizes Miles is smirking at him through his cigarette. "I know I'm irresistible, but try to keep it in your pants mate, this is a place of work after all."

Alex rolls his eyes. "Yes, pardon me, it's just extremely hard not to jump you at all times, you being so sexy and all. Surely you understand."

Miles cackles loudly, the sound echoing in the open field, and Alex can't help the responding smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, Al, it's quite alright. When we finish recording I promise you we'll have a giant orgy with the lads, so we can all leave satisfied."

Alex scrunches up his nose at the ensuing visual. He's pretty sure the last thing he wants is close proximity to a naked James Ford. "Yeah, maybe we can skip that one. Don't think we're Owen's type, anyway."

Miles cocks an eyebrow through a swirling cloud of smoke. "Speak for yourself. I'm everyone's type."

Alex's exasperated head shake feels quite convincing, but as they continue to smoke and stare out at the deep orange of the sunset, he concedes internally that Miles makes a pretty solid point.

\---------------

Once the sun sets for good, they head inside, and find Owen and James chatting on the sofa. Miles clasps his hands together, and makes a beeline for the liquor cabinet. "It's about time we discovered the wonders of French wine, don't you agree, gentlemen?" He briefly rummages through the cabinet, and when he triumphantly emerges with a dark bottle, Alex is already holding up four glasses. "Read me mind." 

Owen groans, tossing his head back on the pillows. "You know we have to pay for these, right? We don't have to go bankrupt to get shitfaced."

"I'll pay for it, you cheap fuck." Alex chides as he hurriedly shoves a glass in his hand. Owen chuckles, and him and James sit up expectantly when Miles arrives with the opened bottle, arm behind his back like a posh server.

"Good evening to you! May I treat you to our fine vintage-" He squints at the bottle, "Pow-luck?"

Alex breaks out into hysterical laughter, and the lads follow suit. "It's  _ Pauillac,  _ fuckin' hell. Poi-yac. Your French is gonna give me an aneurysm one day."

Miles sticks his tongue out at him, and then promptly brings the bottle to his mouth, gulping down the red to Alex's protests. "Sorry! Snobs don't get wine! Ey, stop!" He dashes backwards, laughing wildly, while Alex makes another swipe for the bottle, and then he's chasing him around the living room to retrieve it, Miles' damn long legs always keeping him one step ahead. He can vaguely register James and Owen cheering him on, but his attention is laser focused to Miles hopping around with the wine bottle, clumsily taking swigs to taunt him further. A rivulet of wine trickles down his chin, descending on the column of his throat.. Absurdly, Alex finds himself wanting to lick it off, all the way to Miles' smiling mouth. He hastily shakes off the bizarre thought.  _ That'd be a weird prank to play for sure. _ Instead, he focuses on securing the wine bottle before Miles downs it for good, and when he finally manages to snatch it off of Miles' grip, he sticks his tongue back to him triumphantly. "Guess you're not getting any more, after that little display." His eyes are drawn to Miles' chin again, glistening red. "And get a napkin."

Miles trails off to the kitchen with a not-so-inaudible "bore" while Alex fills the guys' glasses and his own. He settles down on the second sofa next to them, and all three swiftly empty their glasses, basking in the rich taste. Fucking France. As he's doling out refills, Miles exits the kitchen with a batch of clean napkins and a thankfully clean face. He trots to where Alex is sitting, picks up his empty glass, and plops onto the sofa, barely leaving any distance between them. Next thing Alex knows, he can feel Miles' chin on his shoulder, breath tickling his cheek. "Come on Al, don't be a knob. Are you really not gonna pour me any?"

Alex doesn't have to look to know Miles is going for the kicked puppy act, which despite being incredibly unconvincing (Miles isn't nearly good enough an actor to fake that kind of innocence), always manages to sway Alex. He puts on a valiant effort though, trying his hardest to suppress a grin. "Well if you're gonna act like a baby, then maybe I should treat you like one."

James huffs out a laugh in his already half empty glass. "Oh for God's sake Alex, give it up before he climbs in your lap. Don't wanna see that, thanks a lot."

"I do!", giggles Owen, and Jesus, are they all drunk after two glasses? It's the only way he can explain Owen's rowdiness, Miles' sudden proximity, and the heat both those things make flare up in his belly. He downs the second glass, and tries to shake it off. Maybe they're all in a weird stage of inebriation, and it'll take more wine to bring things to the proper state of giddiness. "Fine, whatever, you can have it." 

Miles hums noisily in Alex's ear, making his shoulder snap up to block the tickle. "My benevolent master." He leans over to grab the bottle, and plants a kiss right where his breath was skimming Alex's cheek moments before. Alex extends his empty glass to get another refill, and hopes he's not blushing the way he feels.  _ Definitely more wine. _

The night eventually ends at four glasses each, all four of them practically snoozing on the delicate throw pillows, and Alex at some point finds himself leaning on Miles' shoulder, snoring softly. He comes to with a start when Miles moves, and watches in a sleepy haze as Miles returns both their glasses on the table, and leads him by the hand back to their bedroom. They drop on their beds like stones, and Alex barely musters the energy to strip to his boxers and mumble a "g'night" before everything goes dark.

\-------------

When he wakes up again, it's with a start. The sky is pitch black outside, the moonlight casting a pale white glow through the window, and the entire house is draped in the deafening silence of the early morning hours. His brain is still foggy with sleep and wine, and as he tries to work out what roused him, he realizes he's been scratching himself in his sleep again. There's a vaguely uncomfortable feeling of itchiness across his entire body, and as he shifts to try and find a more comfortable position, his leg makes contact with something  _ \- someone - _ in the bed next to him.

He practically flies off the mattress, fully alert, but before he has time to extricate himself and face the intruder, a long arm is pinning him down on the bed, a leg thrown over both his own.

"Calm down, s'just me." The sleepy voice tickling his ear is immediately recognizable, and Alex slumps down on the bed with a sigh, half relieved and half irritated. He turns to peer in the darkness, barely making out a mass of brown hair on the pillow next to his. "Scared me half to death, ya fucker." His voice sounds like he’s been gurgling gravel. "What are you doing here?"

Miles starts rubbing slow circles on Alex's arm, and Alex, despite his annoyance, feels himself relax back into the mattress, the tension seeping from him with every consecutive motion. "Me bed's fucking itchy. Now quiet down so we can get some sleep."

Alex huffs out a laugh, and is about to tell Miles that he's the entire reason they're awake in the first place, but then Miles shifts closer, effectively plastering himself on Alex's side, and all snarky remarks die in his throat. Miles is sleeping in plain boxers, like he is. He can feel Miles' arm still caging him on the mattress, his chest falling and rising against his bare arm, breath ghosting across Alex's ear, making gooseflesh prickle up all the way down to his legs. He hopes his own breathing isn't as ragged as it sounds in his ears.

He concentrates all his efforts on evening it out and tries to fall back asleep.  _ This is stupid. _ There's no need to feel weird, it's just Miles next to him. They've slept next to each other about a hundred times, in battered tour buses taking them to some rainy city to perform, in tiny hotel rooms the night before some festival. It's as commonplace as them playing the guitar together, and yet none of the other times have ever felt like this. He is almost certain he can feel Miles' heartbeat, and the fine hairs on his leg tickle his own where it's strewn over them, falling in between when Alex incrementally spreads his legs to get comfortable. 

It must be the position. They've never really…spooned like this any of the other times. Even so, it doesn't mean anything. It's just the bloody heat and sweat and ludicrously expensive French wine getting him all agitated, and squirmy. He screws his eyes shut in an effort to force himself to sleep, but it's at that moment when Miles' arm shifts from where it's draped on him. The movement is slow, languid, and Alex starts hoping that maybe Miles has already fallen asleep, and is switching positions to turn his back to Alex, effectively eliminating any awkwardness. Miles' hand travels along his torso, and then it pauses. His fingers stroke a feather light touch to the sensitive flesh of his ribs, and Alex spasms and lets out a giggle despite himself, realizing Miles' stupid game. 

"Don't you fucking dare! I swear I'll knock ya over the head!" He tries to threaten over increasingly asthmatic laughter, but Miles keeps tickling his sides and dodging Alex's arms when he tries to shove him away.

"What's the matter, Al? You're not ticklish I hope. That'd be very unfortunate." His voice is husky with the last traces of sleep, and Alex can hear the cheeky smile in his voice, making his heart jump against his ribs. He squirms even harder when Miles' hand reaches his front again, digging his fingers in now, and Alex wheezes and flails more, ending up curled on his side and facing Miles' mischievous hazel eyes. 

He pauses for the briefest moment, and then in a rush, he swings his legs over Miles', surging above him to pin him to the mattress. He sits up straddling his legs, sending Miles on his back with a 'hmph', and his hands shoot up to lock Miles' arms above his head by the wrists. Alex can hear himself panting, the last echoes of delirious laughter fading away between them as he stares down at Miles, who is apparently too stunned to shake him off. Alex has no doubt that he could, given that he's taller, and stronger, but Miles makes no move to change their positions, simply staring at Alex with amusement, and something else Alex's addled brain can't place, chest rising and falling with his own labored breathing. Alex finds that his own breathing evens out to synchronise with his, and suddenly he's acutely aware that he's sat right on top of Miles' crotch.

"Just knock it off, alright?"

His voice comes out rougher than he intends to, a heady combination of wine and sleep and laughter, and his hands reflexively tighten on Miles' wrists as it filters through his ears. Miles stares at him a moment longer, eyes scanning all over his face, and then he nods, a small smile settling on his lips.

Alex feels himself exhale shakily, nodding back. Slowly he releases Miles' wrists one by one, moving off his lap and into his own side of the bed. His limbs feel like they're pumped full of lead, and he barely shoots another glance at Miles while he lies back down and turns to his side, facing away. 

The silence stretches on and on, and then Miles rasps next to him, almost too quietly for him to hear. "Goodnight."

Alex closes his eyes, and vows never to drink French wine again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drink responsibly kids; you may end up straddling your best friend :(
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at @gasdancer !!


	3. découverte

"Bloody hell, it's hot today, innit?"

Alex looks up, snapped out of his trance by the familiar voice. He's been lost in his own world today. Everyone woke up with varying levels of a hangover, and they unanimously decided to take it easy for the day, since they'd gotten so much work done the day before. They finished up in time for lunch, and Miles, seemingly the least affected by the power of the French vintage, went off to seek the studio personnel, and provide aspirin for everyone. Alex stayed back, and set up camp in the kitchen, trustd brown notebook open and waiting in front of him. There had been a glimmer of a tune dancing in his head all day, nagging at his conscious during the entire recording session, but soon he realised he was chasing a ghost. Every time he thought he had something cohesive, a poignant lyric perfectly merging with the next, his thoughts seemed to crash together in a flurry, and the tune remained elusive. Logically, he knows that when he hits a creative wall like that, it's better to move on to another thing and let the blockage be resolved organically, either in his subconscious or through the clarity distance has provided, but this song seems to have hooked its claws in his brain, refusing to let go. It's only resulted in him getting increasingly frustrated, jotting down unfinished, unusable thoughts in the neat rows of the page, and when Miles enters, fanning himself with a magazine, Alex decides it's probably time to call it.

He slams the offending object shut and hops to his feet. "I know. We should get out. Go for a bike ride or summat. It's so bloody stuffy in here, I can barely string two thoughts together."

Miles snorts from where he's leaning on the doorframe. "Get out? In the sun? Didn't know your plan to combat the stuffiness was to pass out completely." Alex jabs his fingers in Miles' belly, and grins in satisfaction as Miles, not quick enough to react, hunches over with an adorable grunt, playfully shoving him backwards. "We won't pass out, dickhead. We'll go for a ride, find some shade and relax." Miles considers it for a few moments, and, apparently acknowledging the superiority of Alex's plan, agrees to go.

As soon as they exit the house it becomes clear the scorching heat won't allow for shirts, and they both discard them, Miles wrapping his around his head like a turban. Alex huffs out a laugh at the sight, Miles laughing along as he's securing it around his head, but he finds that his eyes keep wandering from the headpiece to Miles' lean body, almost glowing golden in the sun. He's skinny and wiry, muscles pulled taut over his slender frame as he moves his arms to adjust it properly. His shoulders are broad, Alex notices, despite his lack of bulk, tapering to a slender waist, and narrow hips. If they were to stand face to face, Miles could probably dwarf his own narrow torso. He didn't get to have a good look last night in the dark, when Miles' body was pressed under his, but he felt him when Miles was sleepily wrapped around him. His cheeks flare up, and he quickly fans himself, raising his other hand to shield his face from the sun.

He diverts his attention to their bikes, parked on the outside wall, while he mimics Miles' idea of the shirt turban. After brief deliberation they scurry off to one of the dirt roads surrounding the studio, but somewhere between their lack of knowledge of the area, and their constant distracting discussions and laughter, they find themselves in an unfamiliar part of the area. Alex pauses with a foot on the dirt, and looks around at the seemingly uniform pattern of trees, mentally kicking himself. He's usually so well organised, and would have normally consulted a map or asked someone from the studio personnel to help guide them, but he acted completely thoughtlessly, basically dragging Miles out with him, and now he had no idea where they'd ended up. The bloody heat and the bloody song were clearly messing with his head. He whips his head around agitatedly, trying to work out if they'd be able to hang here for a while, and then still remember how to return. 

"'Let's go out Miles', he says! 'We'll find some nice shade and relax, Miles!' he says! And then he goes and gets us lost!", comes Miles' teasing voice from behind him. Alex rolls his eyes and doesn't bother with a serious rebuttal. He knows perfectly well he's the only one even remotely stressing in this situation, and Miles is just taking the piss out of his agitation. Miles Kane has never shied away from an adventure, however ill-advised. "It's not me fault someone was singing like a pillock all the way here and distracting me!" Alex yells back. "It's both our faults! Can't blame just me when you have no sense of direction!"

Miles' eyes widen in dramatic outrage, and he quickly sets his feet on the pedals, barreling towards Alex to ram him from the side. Alex's feet are quick on the defense and he dodges the invasion, leading Miles in hot pursuit further down the path. "I've got a perfect sense of direction, Turner, I just need to know where I'm headed! And right now I’ve got a fucking target!" Miles howls behind him, and Alex grins so hard he feels his cheek burn, matching the muscles in his legs as they push madly at the pedals, widening the distance between them. Alex swivels the wheel sharply to the right, making a steep U-turn back to where they came from, and Miles follows hot on his heels, still heckling him loudly . Alex can barely hear him over the wind whistling in his ears and his heartbeat galloping in his throat, but Miles’ voice still makes him shiver in elation. 

They end up racing back to the studio in record time, and Alex stumbles off the seat the moment they reach their yard, drenched in beads of sweat. His legs barely hold him upright, twitching from the sudden effort, and Miles all but crashes into him a second later, letting the bike collapse in a heap in the middle of the patio. He is red all over now, part sun and part exertion, and he wobbles towards Alex, panting. “Alright,” he wheezes. “Ya win this one, but I won’t give up! I lost the fight, but I di-”. The rest of the sentence is cut off by a bout of hackign cough, Miles’ lungs clearly refusing to assist any declaration of a rematch. Alex snorts out fondly, and curls an arm around Miles’ ribs, allowing them both to carry their shaking legs all the way inside the house. As they start to bicker for the right to first shower, Alex tries really hard not to notice how Miles' sweaty body feels gliding against his palm.

\-----

On the fourth night, it’s decided that they ought to explore, and check if any of the local bars are any good for a night out. Miles finds Alex in bed, caught up in some book he picked up around the studio.

"Oi, old man!" He says, tickling Alex's foot. "We're all going out for a few pints. Are you following?"

Alex's foot jerks, and he has half a mind to chuck the book at Miles' head, but as he lifts his head to look at him properly and calculate his aim, he's left staring. Miles has seemingly decided to put his best foot forward for the ten patrons of whatever rural French bar they're about to head to, and he's opted for a crisp white polo, and tight black jeans that make his legs look even longer and slimmer than usual. Alex has gone out with him many times back in the UK, and he knows perfectly well how Miles looks when he's dressed to impress, but this time something hits him different. The French countryside agrees with Miles, and the white of his shirt contrasts perfectly with his tan, and his glowing reddened cheeks. His hair looks perfectly tousled, ever so slightly lightened by the summer sun, and he's currently towering above Alex's bed, emanating a confidence that says he knows exactly how Alex is sizing him up. Alex really hopes he doesn't.

"Earth to Alex! What is it? Is grandpa's vision going as well?"

Alex does chuck the book at him then, but Miles' reflexes prove better this time around, and he catches it with a cackle that vibrates right into Alex's bones. "I'm coming, ya knob. Book's boring anyway. Me French is as bad as yours as it turns out." He ignores Miles flipping him off as he rushes to his feet, and starts rummaging through his suitcase for something a bit more presentable to wear, all the while trying to shake off this newfound pause sharp-dressed Miles is giving him. When he turns, he finds Miles still regarding him. "I'll be out in five." He cocks an eyebrow, and aims for a joke. "Or would you rather watch me change, ya skank?" 

Miles' grin turns almost predatory, and Alex quickly realizes his projected arrogance may have just backfired on him. "Oh, Al. I'd be thrilled to, but if I did, we'd never leave the room, and I don't wanna leave the lads hanging ." He blatantly checks him out to punctuate his sentence, and Alex huffs out a laugh almost reflexively at the teasing, and hears Miles laugh too as he shifts his gaze back to his clothes, rifling through the jumbled mess. "I'll be waiting out front, mate. Don't take forever." With that, Miles exits the room, and Alex forcefully lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. It's all just because of the close quarters, he rationalises as he starts to get dressed. He's not sure what  _ it _ is exactly, but he knows something is palpably different. Miles has not changed, Alex himself has definitely not changed, so it must be the new environment, the proximity. It's like that time their house was being repainted when he was seven, and his parents let him stay with Matt while his room was uninhabitable. Him and Matt spent four days basically wrapped into each other, and at the end of it Alex considered him less a friend and more a brother. Maybe it is happening again with Miles. Maybe it's their time to bond in ways they haven't before, and come out of it closer than ever. Sure, he's not seven anymore, and neither is Miles, so he's bound to get these strange flashes in between, especially in the blistering heat that makes his clothes stick to his body and the sweat curl on Miles' upper lip. He's human, he's young, and he hasn't touched himself since they got here. He won't allow himself to stress about feeling the effects of August under his skin.

In the end, he opts for tight jeans as well, and a nice shirt. He most definitely won't let Miles hog  _ all  _ the attention tonight.

The bar is within walking distance, and they all walk together in little clusters, chatting and laughing along the way. Alex and Miles stick together, as always, and when Miles snakes an arm around Alex's waist, Alex's arm automatically drapes across Miles' shoulders, like clockwork. It shouldn't make his stomach jump.

"Missed it a bit to be honest." Miles sighs "Going out for a pint in a nice pub with the lads. Feels like we're back home." Alex turns his head to look at him, and centers on his hazel eyes, bright and wistful. His profile looks even more stark in the moonlight, all sharp nose and bobbing Adam's apple. Miles, realizing he's being stared at, turns too and fixes Alex with a warm look. "Not really," Alex gulps. "It doesn't really feel like home, I mean. It's all so... different out here." Miles' eyes have a downward slope to them, he notices in this distance, and his eyelashes are lovely, dark and long, almost feminine. On any other person it would imbue a melancholic aura, but not on Miles. Miles exudes enough joy and passion to counteract the effect, like a blazing sun shining through a cloud. "Not sure if I like it or not."

Miles sucks in a mock offended gasp. "Oh, Mr Turner doesn't like being here, does he? I am very hurt. And here I thought we were having the time of our lives!" Alex squeezes his shoulder, seized with the need to set things straight, even though he knows Miles is only teasing. "We are _ . I am.  _ It's just...You know me, sometimes it's hard to adjust to new environments." They're still walking clasped together, but their pace has slowed down, and Alex's voice drops in turn, as if in confession. "Feels like I'm not in control."

Miles, as he always does, tunes into Alex's wavelength as easily as slipping into a new jacket. "I know you don't, laa. But sometimes, the best things in life come about when you surrender."

They've paused entirely now, looking at each other, and Alex's neck is starting to burn uncomfortably. Miles' eyes pierce into him, and he suddenly feels like he walked out of the house naked, instead of in his best outfit. The silence stretches on and on, and just as he feels like he's gonna burst under it, Miles breaks the moment, returning his gaze to the ground, while his arm drops from Alex's waist. "It's what they say, anyway."

Alex's eyes snap forward as well, and he tries to focus on a spot on the ground, feeling like he stepped off a rocking boat. "Yeah. I s'pose." They briskly resume the trek to the bar, arms safely kept to their sides, and Alex vehemently ignores how his clothes suddenly feel way too tight. For the rest of the walk, all the way until they reach the chipped door of the French bar, neither utters another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually broke this chapter into two parts cause it was getting too long in the edit, so the next one picks up right after it.
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at @gasdancer !!


	4. jalouise

The place is, as expected, not nearly as crowded as the English pubs they frequent, but it's buzzing enough not to feel depressing. It's relatively small, and has a nostalgically quaint feeling to it, like it was built and decorated only once in the late seventies, and then it was left to his own devices, no interfering hand but the patrons and the servers, a tiny little time capsule in the middle of a 2007 town. Their group situates itself at the bar, and they hail the girl behind it to take their orders. Alex feels especially eager to drink, but he hangs back as the others busy themselves collecting their drinks, absently taking in his surroundings while he processes what Miles said. He's in the French countryside, having a great time with mates, and he's winding himself up for no reason, yet again. He does need to loosen up, just like Miles said. This situation is could be a chance for him to get closer to Miles, for them to get even more interconnected, and find out where that takes them, creatively or otherwise. Maybe he needs to stop overthinking and just-

"Bonsoir! What can I get you?"

The chirping voice yanks him out of his thoughts, and he abruptly looks up, to find the barwoman flashing a charming smile at him. She is young, probably no older than them, a petite thing with big brown eyes framed by chocolate brown bangs. He involuntarily finds himself smiling back, and he edges closer to the bar. "Uh, hi. Didn't expect to hear English around here. At least not with such a good accent." 

The girl smiles even wider. Her teeth are slightly crooked, but it seems to add to her appeal, rather than diminish it. He feels a slight flush creep up his neck. "Thank you. All your friends already ordered. You're from England, no? Are you here for the studio?" Her natural accent does peek out in certain words, lifting at the last syllable, and Alex realizes she's now blatantly checking him out. His thoughts shift to Alexa with a pang of guilt, but it doesn’t settle for long. The two of them ended up on agreement a while ago, borne out of circular fights and frustrated nights across country borders, that they were both allowed some light extracurricular fun if they were apart for a long time. He could easily pursue this, exchange some flirty compliments, maybe get her giggling with his broken French, and he'd end up snogging her behind the building before the night was over. Isn't this why he dressed up after all? To keep up with Miles-

With Miles.

In a blink, it dawns on him that for all her appeal, he really can't bring himself to chat this girl up. He abruptly moves back from where he'd unconsciously leaned in, and shifts his voice to nonchalant. "Uh, yeah, we're recording. We'll be gone in a few days though. Can I have a large beer? Just give me whatever."

The girl's wide smile falters, but she recovers quickly enough, and when she comes back with his beer he shoots her an apologetic half-smile. He picks up the cold pint, and his eyes anxiously scan the room, trying to find Miles. And find him he does.

At first he doesn't spot him because he's not sitting with their mates, but he soon locates Miles' back, sat at a table with a blonde girl that is definitely not part of their group, arm draped on the back of her chair, chatting charmingly in the way he does when he's on a mission. 

Alex gawks at them, as Miles leans in to whisper something in her ear and she lets out a giggle resembling a shriek, the drink in her hand sloshing while she elbows at his chest in playful offense. Miles doesn't seem to mind, and he moves even closer, effectively caging her between his body and the chair. For a brief, dark, moment Alex is tempted to march there and ruin their little tableau, not-so-subtly remind Miles that this is a night out with  _ mates,  _ and not a chance to pull the first French bird that bats her eyelashes at him. Thankfully, the moment passes in the same rush it arrives, and he sucks in a breath, stalking off to where the guys are chatting, and dropping his pint on the hard wooden surface of the table.

"There you are!" James exclaims, while Owen smiles at him. "Miles was looking for you, but you seemed to be occupied." A glance passes between them, presumably amusing themselves over Alex's brief exchange with the barwoman, and Alex huffs what he hopes sounds like an amused laugh, pointing with his head at Miles' direction. "Well he seems occupied himself, so I guess we're even." James and Owen both turn to look. "Ah, yeah." Owen says casually while picking at the peanut bowl, as if this hasn't just soured Alex's entire evening in the span of a minute. "She's been eyeing him from the moment we walked in. She's pretty fit, Al, let him have his fun. It's not like he's seeing anyone else." 

He's right. Of course he is. Miles is fully unrestrained, untethered. There's no girl waiting for him at home, no expectation of fidelity or monogamy from anyone. He's perfectly free to cosy up to this bird, whisper tried and true lines to her ear, and leave the bar with her giggling, nestled under his arm, rushing off for the perfect nightcap. Alex's gut swirls fervently at the thought of Miles bringing her back to the studio, to their _ room _ , shagging her right next to Alex's bed. He'd have to sleep on the sofa, give them the expected privacy, watch her leave in the middle of the night looking like a fucked out mess. 

A hum of discomfort coming from his hand yanks him back to the present, and he realises he's been curling his fist so tight it's gone numb. Carefully, he straightens out his fingers, and feels the blood rush back in his trembling fingers with a buzz.

"Yer right. Just thought it'd be a night out with the lads, is all," he mumbles as brings the pint to his mouth and directs his look to the other patrons, hoping it'll effectively cut off any further discussion. James and Owen seem to shrug him off, and he absently hears them starting to chat again, their voices muted static in the distance. The bartender is wiping down a glass, still furtively stealing glances at him. He promptly shifts his attention to the other side of the bar. If there's one thing he's become sure of, it's that  _ he's _ not in the mood to shag any bird tonight. This is a night out with mates. It's what it's  _ supposed _ to be.

He throws back more than a few pints while James and Owen chatter on about everything and nothing for hours, periodically adding a hum or a nod to pretend he's part of the conversation. His eyes keep trailing to the busy table opposite them.

Miles doesn't leave the blonde's side all night.

It's past two in the morning when they finally decide to pay and call it a night. Their little wooden table is practically sinking under the cluster of their empty beer glasses, and James yawns and stretches, cheeks a patchwork of red while the three of them tipsily scramble outside. James slings a cheeky arm around Owen, laughing about something or other, and Alex feels horribly, miserably, pointedly out of place. He can't join in on the amusement of his two semi-drunk friends, even though he's had enough himself. The alcohol is fizzing in his veins, but instead of cheering him up, it's just stoked the frustration simmering in the pit of his stomach into a roar. He can't understand it, and he can't name it, but it's boiling so close to the surface he knows he can't even begin to push it down. 

His other option is walking back with Miles, and it makes him wanna scream.

He doesn't even know if Miles is following them home, since last he saw he was too busy shoving his tongue down the French girl's throat, her badly manicured hands tugging at his messy hair. He spasmodically rubs his nose, trying to shake off another coil of anger, and weekly calls out to the lads ahead. "Should we...wait for Miles or summat?"

He can hear Owen snort, and he watches them do a clumsy half-turn back towards him, still clinging to each other. "Don't think he's in a mood to leave, Al. Come on, we have an early start tomorrow." They traipse on ahead, still laughing, and Alex shoots a last look at the bar entrance, shoves his hands in his pockets, and sets off briskly behind them.

\---------------

He's awoken by the sound of movement in the hallway.

His sleep was fitful, still too jittery with simmering annoyance for his brain to shut off completely when they arrived at the house. A quick glance to the side tells him Miles hasn't returned yet, at least not to his own bed. He focuses on the sounds coming from outside the room, breath held tight, trying to decipher if Miles is alone, or if the night is gonna continue to deteriorate. The steps -seemingly a single pair of them- trail off towards the bathroom, and after a few moments Alex catches the sound of the shower running. No voices, no giggles.

He exhales, bringing a hand to rub his aching eyes. Crisis averted. He turns his back to the door, burying his face in the pillow, and tries to chase sleep again. 

He's in the gray area between sleep and wakefulness, when his descent is disrupted by the bedroom door clicking open. Miles tries to be quiet, but Alex is so on edge a whisper could have startled him awake. Still, he doesn't move, or open his eyes. He's definitely not in a mood to talk to Miles right now. He'll either have to pretend to be excited about his conquest, or come clean about his sudden irritation, and both options seem insurmountably exhausting at 6 in the morning. He lies still, regulating his breath, as he senses Miles moving towards his bed. He can hear the soft tapping sound of Miles bare feet connecting with the floor, and then the movement circles at the foot of his bed, and away, towards Miles' side of the room. Despite himself, Alex slips out of the act and cranks an eye open.

Oh.

Through some divine Providence, Miles' back is to him, so he doesn't immediately embarrass himself by being caught lying, and staring. Because evidently, Miles isn't just barefoot. The room is illuminated only by the pale filter of the moonlight, and across from him, Miles' naked form is cast in dark blues and grays, shuffling through the messy suitcase strewn on the floor. His delicate back muscles are flexing and twisting as he hunches over it looking for clothes, the curve of his spine prominent under the taut skin, the rises and dips of his vertebrae leading down to his waist, and slender hips. His skin is faintly glistening with the last traces of the shower, and his hair is still wet, almost shining in the spots the dim light hits. He rises to his feet, and Alex's stomach lurches with the fear of Miles catching him, but he is incapable of tearing his gaze away, inescapably drawn to the way Miles moves, to all the curves and contours of his muscles, to the parts Alex has never gotten to observe before. Miles turns, a dark pair of underwear in his hand, and now Alex couldn't pry his eyes closed even by force. He flashes back to their little bike excursion, where he saw Miles like that again, haloed by the sun instead of the moon, but now there’s a new piece of the puzzle unveiled before him. The sharp V of his hips points further down, unobstructed, and Alex can see the junction between his legs, darker, a thatch of hair curling at the center, and right there-

Alex gulps. He's pretty sure the breath he hitches crackles like a gun cocking in the silence, and his face feels like it's been set on fire. Miles is... big. There's no other way to describe it. He's not hard, but still Alex can make him out clearly through the shadows, thick and long, almost comically so compared to the rest of his lithe frame. The moment passes as quickly as it begins, Miles settling into bed and clumsily getting his underwear on, undoubtedly still pissed and wobbly. Alex thanks his lucky stars for it, because Miles in this state seems to pay zero attention to him, all his brain power seemingly devoted to successfully getting into bed. As he adjusts his position on the mattress, his hand slides down to adjust himself in his briefs as well, and Alex's hand curls reflexively with it. Miles doesn't bother with the sheet, simply snaking a hand under the pillow, and then he's out like a light, spread on the sheets like a Renaissance painting, face turned away.

Alex is still looking, but he's not seeing anymore. His brain is firing like a dysfunctional automaton, but no coherent thought escapes other than " _ fuck, fuck, fuck _ ", cause he's lying there, having seen his best friend's naked body, and he's hard as a rock, straining against the bed. Miles' chest is rising and falling with the even breath of sleep, and Alex can barely hold back the growing, persistent urge to rut into the mattress, get some relief. It's ridiculous, really. Just a few days away from his girlfriend and a look at Miles' prick and suddenly his body finds it acceptable to get a stiffy from best friend, even consider tossing off to him. Well, he won't. He absolutely won't.

He tries to conjure up thoughts that are sure to kill anything going on between his legs, but his brain is malfunctioning, barely in his command after a long night of drinking, and seething, and hopelessly trying to sleep. He screws his eyes shut, and scrambles for the safest options: His grandma in a Christmas sweater, cricket, long nights in the studio,  _ with Miles playing guitar,  _ Matt's afro, grass growing,  _ Miles sweaty on his bike, riding through the trees,  _ sitting in geography class,  _ sitting on Miles' lap in this exact bed, pinning him down, cocks all but pressed together through their flimsy underwear- _

He's not sure when he gets up exactly, but he's suddenly aware of being on his feet, striding as quietly as he can to the bathroom, and before the door can even click shut he's got his back on it, eyes slipping closed, hand shoving down his pants to fist his aching cock. He bites back a moan, bites down on his other forearm as his right hand takes on a fast, borderline brutal rhythm, desperation tinging every stroke, and now that he's allowed it, his mind can't stop. He is swarmed with images of Miles dripping with sweat, Miles sweaty and tousled, Miles hard and huge and leaking all over his fist, just like Alex is.  _ He probably fucked that girl from the bar _ , he thinks, and he twists his grip as he passes over the head with a muffled gasp.  _ He probably took her on all fours, like an animal, gripped her hips rough and just pounded into her- _

His orgasm scissors through him so abruptly he's almost shocked by it, stifling a long, shuddering moan with the teeth biting into his arm. His hand doesn't slow down, and he comes and comes, Miles taking over every inch of his mind, and for a moment he's so hot with it his knees nearly give out.

He counts one, two, three, four long breaths before he opens his eyes, and he's greeted with his reflection in the mirror. His head is still swimming, and it takes a second for his eyes to focus, but then his split vision merges into one, and he finds his image staring back at him, flushed and sated, shiny stripes of cum coating his belly and sliding down his knuckles. He looks properly fucked, hair mussed with sleep, cheeks red with exertion. He looks like he just came all over himself, thinking about his best friend shagging some bird. Thinking about Miles. His breath hiccups loudly in his throat, echoes around the tiles of the small bathroom, and suddenly the alcohol in his system returns with a force. He barely manages to make it to the toilet, and then he's puking out his insides so hard his whole body spasms. He heaves until there's nothing left, and the acid chokes him, burns into his nostrils, and makes his eyes water and blur, momentarily blinding him. 

He doesn't look in the mirror while he cleans up. He briefly contemplates a shower, but that would make him even more alert, so he decides against it, splashing warm water on his face and brushing his teeth to get rid of the vile smell, scrubbing angrily at the dried cum on his stomach with a soaked paper towel. He takes an anxious look around the bathroom once he's finished, making sure he hasn’t left any evidence for anyone to discover. If only he could take a scrubbing towel to his brain too.

His drowsy body ends up leading him to the living room sofa, unwilling to step into the quicksand that is their shared bedroom. As he collapses with a final hope that this night will turn out to be an elaborate nightmare in the morning, the sun slowly starts to break through the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know why I even bothered with the M rating honestly, I know who I am and where all my fics end up.
> 
> Hang in there, Alex!


	5. honte

He wants to sleep for a thousand years.

He's abruptly awoken by Owen in the morning, meninges pounding a sick drumbeat in his skull and stomach feeling like a gaping hole. Owen, surprisingly cheerful for a man that ought to be weathering a tequila hangover, shakes his shoulder hastily, and then disappears into the kitchen with a "Coffee's ready!" The rattling of cabinets and clicking of cutlery emerges so noisily that Alex groans, and buries his head under the tiny throw pillow.

Images of last night swarm in, drowning out any other thought, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't wanna get up. Maybe if he wishes it hard enough, the sofa will swallow him whole and he'll disappear without a trace, to everyone's benefit. He wraps his arms around the pillow over his head, and feels his eyes succumb to the heaviness once again.

"Oi! Al! Ya didn't even drink that much last night, get up!"

His head snaps up with an annoyed grunt, and he levels what he hopes is a menacing gaze at James, who also seems uncharacteristically chipper. His curls stick out at odd angles, but he's smiling down at him merrily, as if this is any other normal day. Which he supposes it is, for him. James went out, had a few pints, and blissfully went to bed. James is a normal, well-adjusted member of society. Alex hates him. 

He grumbles something unintelligible as he shuffles to his feet, and makes his way to the bathroom before anyone has a chance to say anything to him. He doesn't look back at the door as he steps into the shower, or at his reflection in the mirror.

The water is warm enough, but it still comes as a shock, making his shoulders hunch. He sits under the spray motionless for a minute, then two, as the cascading water slowly washes away the last traces of sleep, the last traces of his safety blanket. He is going to have to face himself, and most horribly, he is going to have to face Miles. The disgust boils in his stomach, bubbles into his bloodstream, and he starts scrubbing himself furiously, as if the soap is gonna shed his skin, allow him to emerge out of the bathroom a new Alex, the  _ old _ Alex, the one that didn't make stupid, life-ruining decisions at the crack of dawn because he was confused and horny and upset.

When he feels sufficiently clean, or at least sufficiently scrubbed pink, he steps off, towels himself dry and wraps the towel around his hips. He takes a steadying breath, and hazards a look into the mirror. He doesn't look much different, he thinks, apart from the mask of misery settling over his features, making his eyes sink into their sockets and his mouth curl downwards. There's no neon sign over his head, no booming announcer voice broadcasting his nightly slip up. If he just finds the willpower to lie convincingly and kick that morose expression, he may well manage to slip by unnoticed, pretend like everything is normal until it becomes reality. He rubs an angry hand over his face, sniffles, and opens the door.

The walk to their bedroom feels like he's walking the plank on a pirate ship, hands bound, ready to plunge into the depths.  _ Everything's normal. Everything is fine. Just don't be strange and he won't know a thing.  _ He allows himself two more seconds, and then he turns the doorknob and steps in.

Miles looks up. He's clad in snug jeans, resting low on his hips, and when he sees Alex his face breaks into an unbearably sweet smile, the morning light bathing him from head to toe through the French window. 

"There ya are! I was sure I saw you in bed when I came home last night, but when I woke up you were gone. Owen told me you slept on the sofa." He has a t-shirt slung halfway up his left arm, and he passes his other arm into the sleeve, stretching to get it over his head. The lean muscles in his belly curl as he lifts his arms, and his jeans slide down just the barest inch.

Alex's throat dries up so fast that he nearly chokes.

"Yeah, I-" He sounds raw, voice hoarse and foreign to his ears. His coughs once, tears his gaze away from the sliver of skin peeking through above Miles' jeans, even when Miles gets the shirt on. "I went to the loo in the middle of the night, and then it was easier to just sleep right there on the sofa, ya know?" He's almost proud of himself. It's actually not far from the truth at all. Just lacking a few important details.

Miles nods understandingly, and Alex nearly laughs at him, at his naivety. Miles' gaze shifts then, raking over the rest of his body with a lecherous smirk, and Alex feels like he's swallowed a tennis ball. "You gonna do a little striptease for me, then?"

Alex gasps out a laugh that he hopes sounds genuine. "Nah, just gonna…" He clutches the towel to his hip, and in a rush he moves to his bag and hurriedly picks out a random selection of underwear, t-shirt and trousers. "I'm gonna go change in the bathroom."

He turns on his heels and flies out of the room just in time to catch Miles' frown. Lovely. Off to a great, normal, start.

\---------------

Things barely improve over breakfast. 

Once Alex dresses hastily in the bathroom, mentally berating himself the entire time, he beelines to the kitchen, fixing himself a cup of coffee, black, and slumping at the kitchen table. He doesn't really participate in conversation, feigning a hangover headache when Owen shifts his attention to him. 

"Well you oughta eat something, set you straight for the day." Owen insists, and Alex bites on his tongue not to make a comment.  _ Setting me  _ straight _ again is gonna take more than an English breakfast at this point, mate. _

Still, the hollowness in his stomach rears its head as he looks to the table, so he transfers a croissant to his plate from the platter in front of him. He takes a bite, relishing the fluffy texture and sweetness, and then he hears footsteps behind him.

"Mooooorning!" Miles sing-songs in an exaggerated posh accent. He picks up a clean mug from the counter, tossing it animatedly to his other hand, and as he passes behind Alex to get to the coffee pot, he trails a quick, teasing finger over his neck. Alex twitches, pieces of croissant lodging in his throat, and he hastily takes a sip of coffee to wash them down. Thankfully, Owen and James have zeroed in on Miles' good mood, and his spluttering passes unnoticed. 

"Someone's chipper, ey?" James smirks at him. "Didn't see you come in last night."

_ Lucky you.  _ Alex keeps his eyes trained on his coffee cup, follows the little wisps of steam still drifting out from the surface. He studiously starts swirling it with his spoon.

Miles all by crashes into the chair next to him, and Alex doesn't have to look to picture Miles' utterly gleeful expression. "Ah, you know. Couldn't let_ Charlotte _walk home all by herself at that hour, could I? I was being a proper gentleman."

Alex badly wants to ask if he fucked her gentlemanly as well, but that thought brings his little late-night escapade cascading into the forefront of his mind, so he clenches his teeth and wills his cheeks to stop burning, keeping his mouth firmly shut. 

Of course, Owen, wanker that he is, latches onto the comment as well. "Oh, you just walked her home? And then I'm sure you gave her a chaste kiss goodnight and went on your merry way. As if we don't know you." 

Alex can hear the smirk in Miles' voice. "Alright fine, I stayed a little! You would have too, if you were jumped like that. She were practically climbing me as soon as I got her through the door."

James snorts into his coffee cup, sending little droplets flying. "And? How was it?"

"Oh, fucking mega. She rode me like it was our last night on Earth, mate." Alex senses it when Miles shifts his attention towards him, feels his gaze on the side of his face like it's radiating heat. "You could have joined Al, she had a fit friend. We would have made it a party."

The spoon is stirring up a vortex in Alex's coffee. "Weren't in the mood for that," he grits out, voice clipped, and he fights agonisingly to suppress the images Miles is trying to put in his head. He doesn't exactly trust himself not to get hard again thinking about Miles on his back, panting as a girl rides his thickness, hips thrusting upwards, bouncing her on his cock-

His face must be looking like a fucking tomato by now. He's surprised it hasn't exploded yet, blown to bloody little pieces right into James' corkscrew curls. He lets go off the spoon abruptly, watches it swirl into the cup with the momentum for one full rotation until it breaks speed, stilling gently.

"Funny, you seemed exactly in the mood with the bird behind the bar." Alex's head snaps up at that, confused for a second, but then it comes to him. The bartender, with her crooked teeth and warm eyes. He thinks he almost catches something different in Miles' voice, a shift from the previous levity, but when he looks at Miles' face it looks perfectly neutral.

"I didn't mean anything by that. Was just making conversation. Not all of us are looking for a shag 24/7, you know." He fucking hates the bitter edge creeping into his voice, and he hates even more how Miles' eyebrow quirks, instantly catching onto it. 

He directs his attention back into his coffee cup, but not before noticing James giving him a weird look as well. He clears his throat, and tries to shift the conversation to a safer topic, where he won't make a fool out of himself anymore. "So what are we recording today?"

James starts going on about the day's schedule, clearly excited to get them back into order, and while Alex does his utmost to stay focused, he doesn't fail to notice that Miles eyes keep drifting to him during the rest of the meal.

\----------------

The studio suddenly seems too vast and too tiny, all at the same time. His terrible mood has encompassed him so utterly that the once warm and inviting space, inspiring creativity and art, now feels chilly, hollow, like it was never meant to receive people at all. The others fit in just like every other day, seamlessly going through their work, but Alex feels horribly disjointed, as if the studio itself decided he never truly belonged in the first place.

Even so, he would prefer feeling just this newfound inhospitable feeling to its alternative. Miles proceeds like any other day, like he didn't just upend Alex's entire mindset, and he keeps initiating contact in whatever way he can; a hand on his shoulder while they're looking over the screens, a cheeky attempt at a tickle, a funny remark whispered uncomfortably close to his ear. When the touches stop, they're substituted with looks, glances while he's in the booth to record a riff, quicks snaps of the head towards him when a joke comes up only the two of them would understand, appreciative looks while Alex delivers on his vocal take. They're not different to other days, no more exaggerated, but today every bit of attention Miles levels towards him hits like 10000 volts to the chest. He hadn't noticed before, just how wrapped up in each other they could get, but now it sinks in like a slap in the face, and he feels the imperative need to back away from it, get his brain sorted out, shake off that electric feeling in his spine every time Miles' fingers so much as glance against his forearm. 

He keeps casting furtive looks at the clock hanging on the wall, but the day drags on sadistically slow, and every lazy tick of the second hand adds to his mounting frustration. By the time they stop for the day, he feels like he's vibrating with anxiety hard enough to shatter the soundproof glass. James barely gets through the sentence "I think we're good for the day", before Alex is dashing to the door, eager to smell some fresh air instead of Miles' cologne.

He gets to the backyard in a near sprint, and when he's walked far out enough he decelerates, letting his head fall back, and inhaling. He hears faint clucking from the farm, turns into the smooth summer breeze caressing his face, and for a moment he almost feels centered again, like it's all just a bad dream fading away with each consecutive breath.

He can practically feel the universe flipping him off when Miles' hands land on his shoulders, squeezing tight. "What's up with ye today? A little tense, are we?" His hands start kneading the rigid flesh of his shoulders, and Alex hates how he has to choke back a moan.  _ He could just let himself fall into Miles' ministrations, lean back on him, feel his front pressed up on him, chest to shoulder blade, belly to lower back, pelvis to- _

He jolts away from Miles like he's been burnt, and then, like a rattling train speeding towards a cliff edge, he feels his anger boil over, impossible to rein in. His voice comes out so rough that for a second he doesn't recognize it's coming from his own mouth. "Will you fucking stop it for once? Can't you see I'm not in the mood for that shite today? Or do you wanna touch me so bad, you'll do it whether I like it or not?"

Miles looks like he's been slapped. He stares at Alex in bafflement for a long, dizzying moment, and something flits into his eyes that horribly looks like hurt. It's there for the briefest moment, and then his face settles into something harsher, something that Alex despises being on the receiving end of, even if he directly provoked it. 

"Sorry, laa. Didn't realize you suddenly  _ stopped _ being in the mood, is all." His voice is clipped, carefully controlled, his hand flexing slightly at his side, and for a sickeningly thrilling moment, Alex hopes there's a punch coming.

There isn't. Miles' hand uncurls, and he turns back to leave with a shake of his head, but before he's spun completely the other way, he turns back to look at Alex, and the slight crack in his voice shatters him worse than a hit in the jaw ever could. "Next time you decide to be a prick all of a sudden, at least send a fucking memo so I'll know to keep away."

He's gone in the next blink, strutting back to the house with a pound in his step Alex hasn't seen before. He stays there frozen, like a pillar of salt, waiting to crumble. His body is wracked with so many emotions, bouncing from anger, to regret, to disgust, that it isn't sure which to process first, so instead it settles for numbness. He's faintly aware that he's sat down in one of the lawn chairs, but he makes no other move, watching blankly at the rose bushes swaying in the breeze, as evening falls around him.

He's a fuck-up. A complete and utter fuck-up. Not only did he make things weird by starting to look at Miles the wrong way, instead of dealing with it properly and suppressing it so they could at least get through their work, he turned it around and accused of Miles of being too touchy with him. Fucking joke. As if it isn't how their relationship has always been, as if Alex himself hasn't initiated his fair share if it, welcomed it whenever it happened. His stupid brain had to get its wires all crossed, mistake innocent platonic affection for something else entirely, and then refuse to hold any of it back, stopping him from spiralling further and further into it. Miles never crossed the line, and Alex made him feel like shite nonetheless. 

He supposes it's better it turned out this way. He'd rather Miles hate him for being a wound-up aggressive prick, than him really knowing the real cause of all this, the nasty things Alex did in the loo while thinking about him. Miles is quick to anger, but it always wears off under the right ministrations. He wouldn't know how to handle Miles' disgust. He doesn't even want to try.

_ Maybe you shouldn't even pacify him,  _ that sneaky voice in his head suggests.  _ Maybe this situation is ideal, you avoid him, you ignore each other, and this bizarre infatuation passes without you having to subject Miles to any of it. _

He slumps back in the chair, brings his hand to thread into the messy fringe on his forehead. That may be a better solution. Miles will hate him now, but the entire situation will pass bloodlessly, and Alex will work his way back to Miles' good graces when he's certain he's not being a licentious bastard. Their friendship has become one of the bedrocks of his stability, of his whole life, and he won't let a bloody hard-on smash it to pieces.

He springs to his feet, energised by having settled onto a plan of action. It's gonna be rough, he knows, suddenly cutting off contact with Miles when they've spent the better part of a week basically living inside each other. But if it's gonna save their friendship from himself, he's willing to endure it, as rough as it gets.

\--------------

As it turns out, he needn't have worried, because Miles doesn't even give him the chance to avoid him. When he re-enters the house, Miles is nowhere to be seen. He doesn't show up for dinner, to Owen and James' confusion, and Alex doesn't see him in the living room when they sit down for a nightcap, or in any of the furtive glances he shoots outside. Him and the lads have what should be a fun evening for all intents and purposes, but Alex can't help but tune in on what's lacking, the empty seat on the sofa, the absence of a vibrant energy hopping around with a half empty wine bottle, the silence where a thunderous laugh should be.

For a brief, panicked moment he fears Miles fled the studio altogether, but when he enters their bedroom later that night he finds Miles lying in bed already, seemingly asleep, with his back to the door. There are a few crushed cans of beer on the floor by his side. Alex doesn't say anything. He quietly undresses in the dark, creeps into bed, and lies down, facing away from him. In the quiet, he can hear Miles' breathing, even and deep, but there's a little disruption there, almost a tremble, a shaky note at every exhale. He feels his own breath stutter out of his lungs in the same way. Good old Miles, he thinks with a heavy lump in his throat. Always on the same wavelength, without him having to say a word. He closes his eyes and hopes to dream nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: how do I end this chapter  
alex: I sleep


	6. fuite

When he wakes up the next morning, Miles is already gone. For a moment he's still in the heavy blanket of sleep, and thinks about hurrying to catch up to him at breakfast, but then yesterday's events rush in like acid reflux, and he remembers the cold reality; no talking to Miles, until he's himself again. 

If he had any lingering doubts that Miles had decided exactly the same thing last night, they are crushed thoroughly under his feet now, because he does not directly address Alex during the entire breakfast. Alex tentatively sits down next to him when he arrives to the kitchen, carefully avoiding his gaze, but Miles makes no move to initiate contact. There's no outward aggression, no intensity or anger in his words, but Alex feels him straining all the same. His hand jerkily crumples a napkin while chatting with James about today's recording session, and under the table his leg is bouncing up and down like it's trying to drill a hole in the hardwood floor. Alex's leg is close enough to feel it, and he feels like it's making his whole body vibrate with it. It's all he can do to suppress the urge to put his hand on Miles' knee and still him, flex his fingers on the flesh of his thigh.

"We can do Calm Like You today." His voice almost surprises himself too. Three pairs of eyes shoot to his direction, one markedly more piercing. "I think it'd be good to start on it, is all" he says, studiously picking apart a biscuit in his plate. "It's a bit tricky, that one."

Everyone acquiesces easily enough. Despite himself, Alex shoots a quick glance at Miles and finds him still staring, face almost a mask. He tears his gaze off as soon as Alex catches his eye. Alex knows he didn't suggest the song because of time constraints or level of difficulty, and he knows Miles knows too. It's one of the few songs that has no harmonies, and won't require them to share the booth. Miles tosses the wrinkled napkin on his plate and stands up abruptly. 

"I'll catch you inside, yeah?" He's through the door, and out into the patio before anyone has a chance to respond. Alex doesn't turn to watch him leave.  _ I promise it's for the best. _

"What's his deal?" Owen frowns. "Did you two have a little domestic?"

Alex doesn't lift his eyes still, but he can practically taste his hammering heartbeat. "Us? No, not really. Just tired, I suppose. The heat doesn't help."

Owen takes a sip of his coffee, unconvinced, but Alex has no energy to make any further effort. Thankfully. Owen decides not to press. "Well, hope you're not tired in the studio. It looks busy today." He takes another, final sip, and gets up to stretch and head to the studio. Alex catches James's eye as he watches Owen's exit. He has a small smile on his face, like he's privy to some big secret Alex can't even begin to imagine. He says nothing, merely claps a hand on Alex's shoulder with a sympathetic look, and gets up to follow Owen. Alex stays looking at his retreating figure, and after a few seconds he shakes his head, downs the rest of his coffee, and rises to trail behind him.

Everyone's busying themselves at their places when he arrives, and he sees Miles fiddle with his guitar on the sofa, pointedly not looking up at the sound of the door. James immediately puts him in the booth to start on the vocal take, but as he puts his headphones on and clears his throat, he sees Miles get up and lean in to say something to James, inaudible through the thick glass. James frowns, says something back with a nod, and then Miles is walking out of the studio without a glance behind him. Alex stays gaping at the door. He looks to James with confused tilt of his head, and James presses the communication button, voice crackling through the speakers. "He asked if he could be excused if it's gonna be all your vocal today, he's not feeling too well. I suppose we can just finish all your stuff for Calm Like You in this session, right?"

Alex feels like he's swallowed gravel. He nods tightly, trying to seem unaffected, but every breath he takes seems to dissipate into his chest, sinking down hollowly into emptiness. He closes his eyes, and adjusts his headphones again, trying to buy himself some time to relax. This is exactly what be wanted for fuck's sake, and Miles is giving it to him on a platter. Except it's not fucking working, not even marginally. Miles and him aren't interacting, and yet he's still hyper aware of him, his legs curving under the table, his angry eyes on Alex's face, his fingers mindlessly sliding over the guitar, his hunched back abandoning the studio 'cause he can't bear to be around Alex for more than ten minutes. Fuck. How did he fuck up so utterly? 

The booming voice cracks into the booth like a whip, and Alex jumps with a gasp. "Alex? You ready to go?"

Alex looks up at James' concerned face, undoubtedly catching the tremble in Alex's hands. He nods again, more assuredly this time, and he coughs once more for good measure. "Yeah, start the demo, I'm fine."

The drumline starts playing in Alex's ears and he steels himself, focuses on the words he's meant to sing.  _ The words we wrote together.  _ His queue comes up, and he starts.

_ "I can still remember when your city smelled exciting, I still get a whiff of that aroma now and then." _

He wonders where Miles went. Maybe he's back to their room, drinking alone like last night, or maybe he's out for a walk, putting as much distance between him and his messed up friend as he can.

_ "Burglary and fireworks, the skies they were alighting, accidents and toffee drops and thinking on the train." _

His eyes flit to James, and he remembers the videos and pictures in his camera, taken a lifetime and a half ago. He's not sure if he wants to go back and go through all of them, or press the button and erase them for good.

_ "Oh, he was young, in the frost, no regard for the cost of saying his feelings, in the moment they were felt." _

This wasn't supposed to happen. Miles wasn't supposed to be one of the people he'd ruin. The empty sofa sits there mocking, accusatorial. 

_ "And if he was calm like you, locked up inside of your loops, then he'd know full well, all he had to say was, all he had to say was goodbye." _

By the time he's done with the full song, he feels like he's ran a marathon, his heart lodged in his throat and his stomach twisting painfully. James speaks to him again, but this time he can sense the smile in his voice even without seeing it through the glass. "Perfect, Al, you nailed the tone as well. Let's take five and we'll go through some parts again, ok?"

Alex smiles, hoping it looks convincing enough, and casts another glance to the side, hoping that maybe Miles changed his mind, and he's decided Alex is worth the effort after all. The sofa remains unoccupied, and the door stays closed.

The rest of the session goes by as if through a fog. Alex tries to channel the hurricane inside him into the vocals, but old habits are hard to change. Every time he croaks on a difficult note, or he sees James stick a pencil in his curls to scratch his head, or Owen chew on a sandwich with a piece of ham hanging comically off his mouth, he reflexively seeks out a pair of twinkling hazel eyes to share his mirth, but he finds a void instead, and any laughter withers in his chest. They finish off on a good note professionally, but by the time Alex shuffles into the corridor outside the studio he feels like he's a corpse on legs. 

Part of him wants to go towards the bedroom, get to at least spend some time in Miles' presence, but getting stonewalled in a room alone with Miles would probably finish him off. He turns to the front lawn instead, meanders around the bushes, and eventually sits down on a low ledge, looking out into the orange-and-purple sky. He marvels at the beauty, entranced, but it turns into ash in his throat when he realises he has no one to share it with.

He fishes a cigarette and a matchbox out of his pocket, and positions it between his lips while striking a match against the rough side of the box. The flame swells and flickers, and when it simmers down Alex lights the fag, and inhales deeply. He lets the smoke swirl out of his mouth and nostrils, relishes the burn, and then, with barely a thought, he plucks out his phone, finds the name, and hits call.

It doesn't take her more than three rings. As soon as her rich, husky voice hits his ear, he immediately feels part of the tension in his shoulders evaporate. "Hey baby! I was just thinking about you. Excellent timing."

He can't help but mirror the smile he hears across the line. "Hi, Alexa. How's New York?" He hears her scoff in his ear, and the smile gets incrementally wider. 

"Rubbish, really. I don't really know anyone, and the people here are weird and stuck-up. Remind me never to leave London again."

Alexa left around the time he did, off to some fashion shoot thing he didn't quite understand, and didn't ask too many details about. Her schedule had been quite hectic with meetings and rehearsals, so they'd been communicating mainly via texts these past few days. Her presence, even through the phone feels like the first normal thing he's experienced all day.

"Will do. Maybe next time you can take me with you, ease the loneliness a bit, ey?" He means for it to sound cute and romantic, but Alexa, in her uncanny ability to read people, and most of all him, cuts through the veneer and zeroes in like a shark on blood.

"What's the matter? Aren't you having fun? I thought you two would practically be getting married right now." Her tone is light and flippant, but the words hit like a gut punch all the same. "Why- why do you say that?" He asks.

Alexa laughs her deep laugh and Alex suddenly desperately craves for her to appear by his side, real and tangible, take him in her arms and make sense of the tangled knot in his head. "Just a figure of speech, love, 'cause you and Miles are so close. Is everything alright? Is the album not coming along as you'd hoped? I can tell when you're sad, you know, you can't hide from me."

Alex knows, and he loves and dreads it in equal measures. He's pretty sure Alexa wouldn't love to discover  _ everything _ he's been feeling the past few days. "No, the album is fine it's just-". He inhales, chooses his words carefully. He can’t say everything, but God he wants to say  _ something _ . "Miles and I had a bit of a tiff, that's all. Now he's not really talking to me."

"Oh Al, I'm sorry." She sounds so, genuinely, and the spikes of guilt in his belly pierce an inch deeper. "It's just the close quarters, probably. You two got sick of spending every waking hour in each other's faces. It's like how couples usually break up after they go on holiday together."

Alex gulps. The problem is exactly that he  _ didn't _ get sick of Miles' proximity, and he's not sure he’s comfortable with the couples comparison either. He decides he probably shouldn't divulge more, lest Alexa discover exactly what's going on, and he ends up losing another important person in his life in the span of two days. "Yeah, it's probably nothing. We'll sort it out like lads, nowt to worry. What about you? When do you get back?"

Alexa groans on the line, and it tingles on the shell of Alex's ear. "I have another four days. It's getting more bearable now, I'll admit. Typical. As soon as I start getting along with the photographer, it's time to leave again."

"Oh?" Alex's eyebrows lift. "Is he nice?"

"He's alright," Alexa sighs. "He knows all the best bars around, which as you know is the fastest way to my heart. He's been taking us all out for drinks the past few nights."

It's out before Alex can stop himself. "Did you fuck him?"

There's a pause on the line, and then Alexa starts laughing again, except this time there's a hint of a warning to it. "No, in fact, I didn't, Al. But even if I had, that wouldn't present a problem, now would it?"

Alex clears his throat, tries to backtrack as smoothly as possible. For a mad moment he wonders if the French wine from the other night affected his brain functions, and now he’s stuck in perpetual madness. "No, 'course not. Just... wondering if you're having a nice time, is all." 

Her tone mellows out again, and Alex exhales. "I am, baby, don't worry. Haven't felt the need to, lately, to be honest, with all this running around. Is that why you're all moody? You're not getting laid?"

Alex practically splutters, and he can hear Alexa chuckle again. "No, that's- that's not why-"

"Alex," she cuts him off, and he promptly shuts himself up. "You remember what I told you before you left, right? You need to loosen up a little, and stop overthinking. I promise you, you can do whatever you want, with  _ whomever _ you want, and I'll be completely fine with it. Quit stressing so much, you'll give yourself heart problems."

Alex feels warmth on his knuckles, and he looks down to realize that the cigarette has burned down to the filter, nearly untouched. He stubs it under his shoe, making sure he doesn't leave any traces of fire along the rim. "I- I know that. I just haven't felt the need to either. You know me, I'm not much for sleeping with strangers." 

"I know," Alexa says, "so then, don't sleep with a stranger."

He pauses as the words sink into his brain, and he opens his mouth to respond, but he realises he doesn't know how. Just as he collects himself and is formulating the words to ask, Alexa sighs on the line. "Al I'm sorry, love, but they're calling me in for a meeting. Just remember what I told you, okay? Let loose a little, you're in the damn French countryside. Let that overworking brain of yours rest a little. I love you!"

She's hung up before he has a chance to say anything. He stays with the silent phone to his ear for a good while, staring at the clouds slowly rolling towards the west, and then, as if snapping out of a trance he pockets it, and quickly lights another cigarette, planning to smoke it for real this time. Her words bounce around his head like a ball in a pinball machine. He's not sure if she meant it like that, or if his already addled brain is making connections that don't exist, but somehow, Alexa's words feel laden with unsaid meaning. Alexa is a master at that too, saying a lot by saying just enough, and usually he's pretty adept at reading between the lines, same way she does to him. Right now though, he feels like she spoke to him in a foreign language that he only knows the basics of, and he has no dictionary at hand. Realistically, he knows, she can't have meant what he's thinking. There's no way Alexa caught onto to something that didn't even exist three days ago. He takes a long drag, dropping his hand on his bouncing knee, the ash shaking off the tip with motion. 

_ Whomever you want. _ She probably just meant French girls. Or, perhaps, it was her implicit way of giving him a pass to hook up with a bloke. There's no way she knows. 

_ Don’t sleep with a stranger.  _ She must have meant that he shouldn’t hook up with any strange person at all, if that’s his issue. She can’t have been guiding him towards someone he knows.There's no way she understood that Alex wants to hook up with Miles.

Fuck. Alex wants to hook up with Miles. He hadn't really put the words together like that in his head before, dancing around the issue, flitting around the outer edges, but now that he has, it feels like scattered puzzle pieces finally forming a clear picture. It's not just vague attraction, or wank material on drunken nights. He wants to kiss Miles. And grope him. And put his hand on his prick to see how it feels compared to his own,  _ against _ his own, hard and throbbing. He wants to hear the little muffled noises Miles is gonna make into his mouth when he makes him come.

Jesus.

This clarity about the situation isn't helping him in any way, not really, because even with Alexa's dubious blessing there's still a big fucking obstacle in the way, and it's that Miles doesn't see him like that. His only distant hope is that this renewed awareness is a step closer to moving past it. Addressing the problem head on, or some such shite.

  
He takes a final hit of the cigarette, stubs it out along with the other one, and gets up, wiping off the dirt from the back of his jeans. He moves towards their bedroom, and he passes through the living room on the way, finding it empty when he walks in. After a momentary pause, he makes a detour to the liquor cabinet, picks out a bottle of wine at random, and uncorks it. He downs a third of it in a hearty swig, and then gulps down some more for good measure. If he's gonna be faced with a half-naked Miles that hates him, a half-naked Miles that he wants to  _ touch, _ he'd much rather be properly anaesthetised. He stays leant against the cabinet like some drunk at a bar, waiting for the alcohol to start taking hold, and when he's certain he's buzzed enough, he stumbles to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and then, finally, to their bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who loves an alexa ex machina? i sure do
> 
> Come talk to me at @gasdancer!


	7. incendie

He was idly hoping for a repeat of last night, but tonight Miles doesn't do him the favor of pretending to be asleep. He's sat upright in bed, in plain boxers only, and when Alex walks in he levels a steady gaze at him. "Hey."

Alex stands frozen by the doorway, hand locked on the hem of his shirt where he was ready to quickly slip it off and burrow in bed. His throat feels prickly, scratchy from all the wine. Or possibly, not from the wine. "Hey."

Miles doesn't say anything more. He keeps looking at Alex, but Alex thinks -and he hopes it isn't just drunken vision- that there's something softer in his eyes now, gentler than the harshness at breakfast, and the calculated avoidance at the studio. The bedside lamp is on, and it casts half of him in an angelic glow, juxtaposed with the piercing moonlight from outside. Alex keenly wants to step over his own bed, wrap himself around Miles, breathe in the scent in the dip of his collarbone. He missed Miles' smell too today, he realises with a throb in his chest, the smell he'd inhale when he would step too close to him over a monitor, or wrap an arm around him and bring Alex's face close to his neck. 

He shifts on his feet, and prays to whatever God is out there that his thoughts aren't plainly broadcasted all over his face. Miles maintains eye contact for a while longer, and then he sighs quietly, and turns his face downwards. Alex doesn't know what to say. His words tend to fail him even on his best days, so he's utterly hopeless under the heavy weight of French wine, and Miles' presence. No longer frozen in place by his eyes, Alex undresses with as much coordination as he can muster, and crawls into bed, lying on his back to face the ceiling. After a few moments the lamp switches off, but he doesn't feel or hear Miles shift to lie down. He hazards a glance sideways, and sees Miles is still sitting up, now quartered by heavy shadows and pale light from outside. The whites of his eyes glint in the darkness, and Alex can tell he's looking straight ahead at nothing in particular. Alex shifts his eyes upwards again and waits. And waits. And waits.

Miles says nothing still. His own breath rattles in his chest, in his ears, and suddenly the darkness of the room gets too oppressive, too stifling. He can't bear to sleep like this, to let this horrendous day end on such a depressing note, so he lets the words slide off from under his tongue, like a plea. "I'm sorry."

He hears a faint rustle to his right, but Miles doesn't respond. Alex doesn't much care, because he can feel the dam breaking, and he doesn't need any goading from Miles to let the torrent burst through. "I'm so fucking sorry, Miles. I don't know what I was thinking, honestly. I didn't mean any of that, none of it, that thing about you touching me too much, it- it were-" his voice shakes the more he gets into it, and he peers into the darkness above, drawing courage. "I was an incorrigible prick and I hope you can forgive me. You can- you can touch me, and you can talk to me as much as you like, and honestly I don't know what I'll do if you stop, 'cause today was one of the most miserable days of me life."

He breathes out, in, out again, trying to regain some of his composure, but already he feels like a margin of the weight has been lifted off his chest. No matter what happens now, even if he's already lost Miles for good, at least he can say he didn't go down without a fight. 

Just as he thinks Miles has ignored everything he said, and is starting to feel the cold fingers of dread slip up his spine, he hears the bed creak again, and this time Miles' feet hit the floor. The soft steps pad towards him, and then a heavy weight settles on his own bed, curling around him. Miles' hand settles softly on his thorax, right above Alex's hammering heart.

"Well. You know I can't resist when you use words like 'incorrigible'. Plucks right at me heartstrings," Miles murmurs next to his ear.

Alex breathes out a laugh despite himself, but the sinking fear doesn't escape his stomach completely. It can't be that easy, surely. He was too horrible, too scathing for Miles to cave so fast. He unglues his eyes from the ceiling, and braves a glance to his side. It's nearly pitch black in the room, but he can zero in on Miles' eyes even so, two hazel beacons shining in the dark. They're already looking back, indecipherable. Even at this distance, the rest of Miles' face is hard to make out clearly, but he can still spot the sharp ridge of his nose, the slant of his mouth exhaling ghostly breaths on his cheek. He tries hard to suppress the goosebumps rising all over his skin, and swallows thickly. "I have more dictionary words if you'd like, then. Repentance, contrition, compunction-"

Miles snorts, a small chuckle escaping him while his crooked front tooth snags at his bottom lip, and Alex's stomach hurts with how much he wants to lean in, pry it out from under Miles' incisor with his own teeth. "Stop it, ya knob." Miles rasps fondly, and Alex thinks he might melt right through the mattress, onto the hardwood floor below. "I don't have the brain capacity for more than a few. Will you tell me what got into you the other day?"

Classic Miles, straight to the point, no dancing around or evading. Alex is always amazed and frustrated by it in equal parts. He respects Miles' frankness, but it rarely gives him any room to wiggle away, and in this case, it's imperative that he does.

"I don't know, mate, I were just tired, I think and I…just felt a bit overwhelmed, I suppose. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Will you forgive me?"

Miles' hand drags up his chest, tilts his chin up with purpose to get their eyes to lock, and Alex realises he let his gaze drift away from Miles' own. "I already  _ have _ , ya daft prick, but do you promise me it's just that? I didn't really make you feel bad, did I Al? Be honest."

There's something in his voice, something wavering, and Alex feels remorse throbbing in the center of his chest, right under where Miles' hand was resting. He fumbles to his side to face Miles fully, show in every way how serious he is, how earnest. 

"I promise, Mi, you never did anything wrong! It's all me, I'm-" he scrambles for the right words in his head, something close enough to the truth, but not enough to ruin him. "I'm a twat."

It hangs in the air for a second, and then Miles' face blooms into a smile bright enough to illuminate the entire room. "Well. No bloody argument there." Alex can feel the arch of Miles' foot grazing along the inner part of his ankle, and the slight tickle makes him twitch, slinging his other ankle over to trap Miles' foot between his own. "You're lucky you're so fucking adorable Al, 'cause otherwise you'd be in a world of trouble."

_ Oh, I am _ . Alex huffs out a little amused laugh, or at least he hopes he does, because it's getting harder and harder to concentrate on any of his movements. Miles' hand has crept from his chin to his cheek, thumb gently grazing his cheekbone, and Alex is surprised the heat his face is emanating hasn't seared Miles' fingers to the bone. He knows that he just told him he wants to be touched, but God, he wasn't ready, not for this, not for them to be lying so close together, their bodies fitting together from head to toe. Getting called adorable is the nerve-racking cherry on top. He is back in the deep end with no life jacket. He squirms slightly, trying to release his nervous energy, but he can only feel it build.

"But I wouldn't be mad at you, anyway," Miles continues loftily, blithely ignoring Alex's torment, nudging at Alex's leg with his knee. "Not when I can see you're feeling combustion."

Alex heart skips a beat, for a moment terrified that he's  _ that _ fucking obvious, that Miles is taunting him with all of this, but then he remembers, tittering. " _ Compunction _ , not combustion. I see it's not just French you're struggling with."

Miles tries to kick him in the shin, but Alex squeezes his legs, trapping Miles' even tighter. Miles' hand slips further back, fingers curling at the hair on his nape. Alex is certain you could fry an egg on his face. "Sorry, Mr Thesaurus. And what does it mean then?"

Their faces are so close Miles' breath tingles on his face when he speaks, and his features are getting blurrier, not quite making it into focus. Or maybe that's the wine again. Alex isn't much sure he has a voice anymore, or half a brain. "Means feeling guilty."

Miles doesn't reply, just stares back at him, and the moment stretches on and on, an infinity condensed in a few seconds. When he speaks his voice is barely a whisper, but Alex is close enough to feel it ripple against his skull. "There's nothing to feel guilty about, Al."

Alex is drowning. He can't ever tread anymore, and the water is filling his nostrils, his lungs. He realises absently that he's lightly shaking now, but he can't bring himself to try and contain it. He can't focus on anything that isn't Miles' face, Miles' body surrounding his own, and then, like a fraying rope hanging by a last thin strand, he feels his resolve snap.

He surges forward, and in a second his mouth is on Miles', swallowing his little surprised gasp. He kisses him like he's starved, everything he's tried so hard to suppress barreling to the surface, but Miles doesn't respond, going stiff against Alex. Alex savours one last, selfish second, ready to pull back and face the music. Maybe, if he's lucky and he grovels enough, Miles won't leave the studio after this, and he’ll agree to least finish up the record before he never speaks to him again. 

He goes to move away and embrace doom, but as suddenly as flipping a switch, the hand on Alex's neck grips him tighter, and Alex finds himself on his back with an "oomph". Miles is on top of him, and then he's kissing him back_,_ as hungrily as Alex is giving it, and he can't help the relieved moan bubbling up his throat. Miles' hand shoots upwards, burying itself in his hair and _tugging_, and the moan falters into a gasping breath, the sting of pain travelling sharply down Alex's body, arrowing into his pelvis. Miles takes advantage of his open mouth, slides his tongue hotly inside, and Alex meets him eagerly, exploring the wet clutch of his mouth. He tastes like minty toothpaste, like faint traces of cigarettes, like everything Alex imagined, and he swallows it all down with hunger.

Miles' mouth moves away, and Alex's whine of protest melts into a shuddering moan when Miles latches onto his neck, sucking. Alex's legs fall open as if hardwired to the sensitive spot there, and his back arches, bringing their sweaty chests together. Miles' lower half slots into the clutch of Alex's legs, and Alex feels it with a gasp, the hard line of Miles' erection straining against his own through two layers of cotton. They rock against each other almost desperately, breaths hitching against each other's throats, and Alex's hands fly at Miles' hips to keep him right there, make sure Miles doesn't abandon him for a second. Not when he's here, Miles is _ here _ , they're doing this-

"Fuck, Al, do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" Miles grumbles into his ear, biting down on his earlobe, and Alex's hips stutter upwards, ass practically lifting off the bed. "I've thought about having you like this so many times, so many-"

Alex doesn't wait to hear more, cause he's pretty certain that any more of that and he's gonna end up coming in his boxers like a fucking teenager. He brings his hand from Miles' hip to his waistband, and he unceremoniously yanks down Miles' briefs, letting himself marvel for a second at the sight of his cock bobbing wetly against his thigh, before he curls a firm hand around him, squeezing. As expected, anything more Miles' might have had to say is cut off by a hot gasp, and his hips snap against Alex's fist as he starts sliding his hand up and down experimentally, trying to imitate the way he does it to himself. It's not the same, of course. The angle is all different, and Miles feels thick and heavy in his hand. He's never been more turned on by a hand job, and it's not even happening on him. Miles lifts himself on his forearms, head bent down to look at Alex's hand working with a hazy look, mouth hanging open in a pant, and Alex surges up to plant sloppy kisses on his parted lips, his cheek, his jaw, his neck, anywhere he can reach, the movement of his hand getting slicker at each stroke as Miles starts dribbling precum onto his palm. 

He can't help looking down like Miles is, equally transfixed. He can see the swollen head glistening in the dark, peeking in and out of his moving fist, and he swears he can feel his mouth water. He heaves off a broken little moan as he jerks Miles faster, dying to see him erupt, and that seems to pull Miles out of his trance. In a swift motion he brings his hand inside Alex's boxers, tugs him out without even pulling them off, and he starts pumping him with the same fervor, getting him to catch up. 

Alex's groan is almost surprised, the simmering arousal that had taken a backseat while he was taking care of Miles now returning with a vengeance. Miles' mouth is on his again, and Alex pours everything into the kiss, every heated look, every pang of guilt, every spark of desire he's felt since this whole madness started, and Miles meets him with the same fervor. The mounting urgency gets so unbearable they eventually have to pull apart to moan raggedly into each other's mouths, arms working in tangent.

Miles gets there first, and Alex feels it before it happens, feels Miles' body tensing up above him, hips canting brokenly into his fist, and then he's gasping loudly on Alex's lips, "Al, I'm coming baby,  _ oh fuck- _ "

He buries his head in Alex's neck and whines, and Alex feels him throb and twitch in his hand, hot stripes of come shooting out to coat his fist and his abdomen, one reaching all the way up his chest. He's panting too now, wound up beyond belief, and to Miles' credit, his hand doesn't still on Alex's leaking cock, dragging him further and further into ecstasy with him. He looks down again, wanting to watch, and the sight hits him like a freight train; he's covered in cum, glistening lines scissoring on his skin, and below, Miles' graceful fingers work him expertly, wet with his precum. Miles' voice floats in his ear, wrecked with his orgasm. "Come on love, come for me, let me see ya, let me see you come all over yourself-"

He's not sure what does it, visual or audio, but all at once he's seeing white, finishing hard all over the mess on his belly with a choked off sob that sounds a lot like Miles' name. 

Miles strokes him for a while longer, and when the pleasure morphs into oversensitivity, Alex bats his hand away with a soft whine. His eyes have slipped closed in the aftermath, and he senses a soft gust of breath on his cheek as Miles chuckles quietly, followed by a gentle press of lips, right on the edge of his cheekbone. The tingle spreads all over his face like the heat of good whiskey as Miles slumps beside him with a sigh, fingers finding Alex's wrist, tracing idle patterns. Their breathing evens out in harmony, the only thing breaking the warm blanket of silence.

Alex's body and brain are locked in battle. Every inch of him feels like lead, weighed down by French wine and the aftermath of a scorching orgasm. It feels like every part of his body is begging for sleep, but his brain is on a different page entirely, ramped up to overdrive. During the act he wasn't processing, too caught up in the onslaught to get analytical, but now that his body's stilled, his brain gears up. 

"You-". His voice crackles way too loud and disruptive in the peaceful stillness of the room, making Miles' head jerk slightly to look at him. He clears his throat, and tries again, quieter. "You wanted this too?"

"No, Al," comes Miles' voice, already sleepy. He turns to curve into Alex's side again, and this time Alex's arm snakes up automatically, carding his fingers in Miles' mop, damp with sweat.  _ Sex sweat. _ "You just molested me. Remind me to report ya to James when I wake up."

Alex kicks him on the calf, and Miles' laughter vibrates on Alex's neck, all the way to the base of his spine. It's almost strange how normal it seems, how everything feels exactly like it did before, even though this time they're bantering while their spunk dries on Alex's stomach. The only difference is that now, Miles mouths at his neck while he laughs, nipping at his earlobe as he brings his head further up, and Alex doesn't hesitate to chase his lips with his own, kissing him languidly while letting his nails gently scratch at Miles' scalp. Miles' resulting shiver is almost enough to get him going again.

"I wanted it." Miles whispers against his mouth. "And I want it."

Alex nods, too overwhelmed to find the proper words, and just claims his mouth again, as he feels relief and euphoria flood his system all at once. This is alright. They're alright. He wants to touch Miles and Miles wants to touch him, and he doesn't need to feel the ugly stab of guilt in his stomach every time he looks at him.

Stop overthinking. Surrender.

They only stop kissing when the mess on Alex's stomach starts pulling at his skin uncomfortably, and Miles fetches a warm towel to gingerly clean him up. He gets another few kicks to the shin every time he laughs at Alex's happy trail hair getting painfully peeled off along with the dried flakes, but he makes up for it by bending down and pressing tender open-mouthed kisses to every little abused spot, until Alex can no longer feel the sting.

They curl up together with Alex's face buried in the crook of Miles' neck, and he falls into the gentlest sleep he's had since they arrived, six days ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we  
here we  
here we fucking go
> 
> come talk to me [@gasdancer !!](gasdancer.tumblr.com)


	8. cache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose a warning is in order, since we hit some issues on chapter 7...DON'T READ THIS CHAPTER IN PUBLIC ///THERE ARE DICKS///, AND KEEP THAT IN MIND FOR EVERY CHAPTER FROM HERE ON OUT 
> 
> enjoy :3

The first thing he registers is the early morning sun, blazing against his closed eyelids.

  


The second is the sweat, pooling into the hollows of his neck, the dip of his waist, the back of his knees. He groggily thanks his luck that at least the fleas haven’t been bothering him during the night anymore, and he shifts, bumping into solid warmth behind him. Suddenly his body is in full alert, as he realises why he got so hot during the night. Miles is plastered behind him, slotting into every curve of Alex’s body, and his slow, even breath glides over Alex’s neck, making him shiver despite the high temperature. Miles may still be asleep, he senses breathlessly, but a part of him is wide awake, insistent against Alex’s upper thigh.

  


Memories of last night flood back, intoxicating, but he stays still for a moment, unsure if the spell has worn off with daylight, if he’s allowed to reach back and touch anymore. Then the echo of Miles’ voice floats in his head, like the fading remnants of a dream: 

  


_ I wanted it. And I want it. _

  


He can only hope Miles is ready to put his money where his mouth is.

  


Alex gyrates, shifting until he is facing Miles, and he takes a moment for his bleary vision to adjust to Miles’ sleeping features. His face is completely soft, unguarded, and his cheeks are rosy with heat and sleep. The color in them is broken up by indents from the pillow, crisscrossing white on his skin, and there are little crusties gathered on his waterline, clumping on his dark eyelashes. He still feels like he’s half-asleep, molten heat surging from his chest to his limbs, and without even thinking he bends forward, and rubs the tip of his nose on Miles'.

  


Miles shifts, scrunching up his face at the tickle. He doesn't open his eyes, but Alex can tell when he emerges into consciousness all the same.

  


A soft grunt echoes from his chest. "Get yer door stopper out me face," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep. Alex feels a smile tug at his lips, and he fits his body an inch closer. "Get your morning breath out of mine."

  


Miles nudges his head just so, letting their noses brush together again, and Alex feels a slender hand caress up his thigh, stopping to grip at his bare hip. “You first.”

  


“M’ only trying to wake you up.” He deeply wishes Miles would move his hand lower, to where he’s straining himself with morning hardness, but Miles just holds it there, absently running the pads of his fingers in small circles across Alex’s skin, raising goosebumps along the way. “You have to report me to James.”

  


Miles hums, and now his eyes crank open to look at Alex, barely two centimetres apart. Their noses are still slotted against each other. Alex can  _ definitely _ smell his morning breath now, but it feels extremely immaterial at the present moment. “Right,” Miles rasps against him, and he slides lower, lips glancing off of Alex’s, to lazily mouth at his throat. “Remind me to do that after breakfast-”

  


Anything else he might have had to say promptly cascades into a sigh when Alex wedges a thigh in-between his legs, rubbing just enough to tease. Miles gets lost in it for only a second, and then he’s right there too, cradling Alex in his hot palm.

  


They end up rutting up against each other, a sweaty tangle of arms and legs, and by the time Alex comes with a shudder he is so hot he feels he might sublime.

  


They wipe themselves with the same abused towel from last night, and then the showering issue arises. Miles tempts him horribly with the idea of a shared shower (“we’re just being time efficient, Al”), but as much as the prospect of three orgasms in the span of eight hours excites him, they eventually decide against it. Alex’s bed is as safe a zone as it gets, but the bathroom, not so much. He doesn’t exactly wanna confront a bewildered Owen while exiting from the bathroom with a towel on his hips, Miles in tow.

  


“So,” Miles starts while rummaging for a pair of clean underwear. Alex can’t help but stare from where he’s still lounging in bed. A few days ago he was looking at Miles clandestinely from this exact spot, drowning in arousal and guilt, and now they’re casually talking while Miles is naked, and he’s allowed to ogle as much as he wants. He almost wants to pinch himself. “We don’t tell the others anything, then?”

  


Alex takes a second to process the question, still caught up in how Miles’ sweaty form is faintly glistening in the daylight. “Uh, well,” he swallows, forcing himself to focus on his face, “no need to make a fuss, ey? They’ll just start taking the piss, or asking weird questions, and there’s no need for all that.”

  


Besides, it’s not like there’s anything to answer. Him and Miles are not  _ dating _ , or in love, or any of that. This environment obviously awoke something intense in both of them, and they’re simply exploring it. It doesn’t affect their work, and it bloody sure won’t affect their friendship as soon as they get back. He’ll go back to Alexa, Miles will go back on the prowl, and that'll be the end of it. No harm, no foul.

  


Miles looks down to him, now safely clad in underwear. There’s something in his expression as he takes in Alex’s response, like Alex can see the cogs turning in his head. He’s not entirely sure what his internal machinery produces, but after a second Miles smiles back at him cheerily. “Yeah, you’re right.” He heads for the door, ruffling his hair playfully as he walks past him, and then, as of deciding on it last minute, he swoops down to give Alex a small teasing kiss on the lips. Alex smiles into it, takes a moment to bask in the sweet gesture as Miles exits the room and pads away. He closes his eyes against the sun rays from the window, tipping his head back when he hears the distant thud of the bathroom door and realises what’s happening.

  


Wanker distracted him to get in the shower first.

  


He falls back into the pillow with an irritated sigh, craning his head to look at his torso, sticky and blotchy from the whirlwind of their morning activity. 

  


He is definitely seeking recompense for this tonight.

  


\------------------

  


Their studio schedule is pretty relaxed today, which is a curse masquerading a blessing. 

  


They’re recording the string parts today, which means Owen is at the helm. They are still needed in the studio, to run through the arrangements with him, test out the sound, give their input on how well everything fits together, but they’re not actually recording anything in the booth. What this means is that their presence is required at the studio all day, but without anything substantial to occupy themselves with.

  


What this means,  _ practically, _ is that they’re confined in a very small space and their hands are free.

  


Alex likes to think they both keep a cool head during breakfast and the first few hours of recording, not clueing anyone in to the new state of affairs, but as the day wears on he discovers, to his terror, that his restraint has very fragile limits, and Miles is wielding a sledgehammer.

  


It starts out innocently enough, a palm at the small of his back while they’re bent over Owen’s sheet music, a hand creeping from his shoulder towards the nape of his neck while they’re discussing changes, a thigh pressed just a tad too firmly against his own as they’re sitting on the sofa, observing the string section record, but Alex is keenly aware of every inch of contact. They just _ agreed,  _ he fumes, they agreed to keep it private for now, but it’s like Miles can’t stop touching him now that he got his first taste. The logical part of his brain tells him that none of this contact is out of the norm for them, that it would never give cause for suspicion, but he feels like they’re betraying everything all the same, his flaming neck giving it away as if Miles had grabbed his cock instead of his shoulder.

  


What gets him even more agitated, is that he's not  _ just _ agitated.

  


He hates it with a passion, but right there, riding shotgun along his nervousness, is a sick thrill that gets his blood pumping even faster, so much that he can feel his pulse under his fingertips. They’re all sitting right there, mere feet away, working and talking and drinking coffee, and none of them has any idea that Alex came moaning Miles’ name last night, that under Alex’s t-shirt there’s a substantial bruise forming on his shoulder, where Miles bit him this morning to keep from shouting when he finished all over their stomachs. They’re the only ones in on this dirty little joke, as they usually are, and Alex may be nervous of getting caught, but, terrifyingly, he’s more excited to  _ almost  _ get caught.

  


"You two made up then?" beelines a voice directly Into his stream of consciousness, making his head jerk. James is eating a yoghurt, sat casually in his chair with his legs crossed at the ankle in front of him. Alex frowns, and he feels his mouth open and close a few times, like a fish breathing air. “Made up?”

  


“Yeah, y’know-” James waves his spoon around in a vague circle. “You seemed a bit out of sorts lately, but I see you’re better today.”

  


Alex smiles, the tips of his ears prickling as he feels Miles come up next to him, having heard the conversation. “Oh yeah, we were a bit mardy, but we um,” he turns to Miles and his smile flashes even wider, “we just had to cross swords more openly, I suppose.”

  


Miles nods, eyes twinkling as he mirrors Alex’s smile, and Alex feels like he’s at the peak of the rollercoaster ride, a split second before the plummet. “We did, and now we’re back to being joined at the hip, right mate?”

  


Alex nods, and turns hastily to James again before he does anything stupid, like grab Miles by the lapel and snog him in front of everyone. James chuckles, eyes flicking between them with amusement. “Lovely. Well, keep it up.”

  


Miles splutters, quickly turning into Alex’s shoulder to cover it, and Alex feels his chest swell, and expand. James turns back to the soundboard, refocusing on his yoghurt with a shake of the head, but Alex notices he’s still smiling.

  


Miles doesn’t stray from his side for the rest of the session, and as he leans behind him while Owen explains to them how the strings are gonna layer into the chorus, his hand slips to Alex’s hip, edging right under his shirt to rub at his bare hipbone. Alex oh so imperceptibly leans into it, pulse racing.

  


The day drags on.

  


\---------------------

  


Alex barely waits to hear the door click shut before he's on Miles, kissing and biting at his mouth, and Miles has the fucking audacity to laugh against his lips.

  


"Well, well", he says, and he tries for nonchalant but Alex can hear the hint of strain in his voice, "someone's in a hurry."

  


Alex feels the grin break on his lips, and he must look terrifying, cause he feels Miles' breath ripple against his face. "Oh, no, no fuckin' hurry at all,  _ mate _ ." He pushes Miles to fall on the bed, watches him immediately shuffle on his elbows to watch Alex, cock already starting to form a hard line against the denim. They’re both on a hair trigger, he realizes fervently, as he climbs on Miles' lap, leaning in so close that he can count the light flecks in Miles’ eyes. His hand sneaks down to grip him through his jeans, and Miles’ breath hitches deliciously in his throat as he arches into Alex's palm. "In fact, I think I’ve got all the time in the world."

  


He starts kneading Miles slowly through the fabric, watching with a thrill as his hips push into the contact, trying to get more of it. His eyes are boring holes in Alex's face, and then he's yanked down with a force as Miles smashes their mouths together, teeth knocking. He's fucking eager, and Alex is too, fuck if he's not, after a whole day of dancing on the edges of arousal, but he only allows the kiss for a few seconds. He can feel the plan formulating in his brain as he lifts away again, broken thoughts settling into a cohesive course of action that tugs at the back of his head, at the hinge of his jaw.

  


His hand finally leaves the front of Miles' trousers to start unbuckling him, and Miles goes along eagerly, toeing off his shoes and lifting his hips to allow Alex to pull them down, and off. "This too," Alex rasps, motioning with his head at Miles' t-shirt, grateful that his voice sounds way more commanding than he actually feels. Miles complies, stripped down to his boxers, and when his hands move to the hem of Alex's shirt to relieve him of it as well, Alex grips around his wrist, pinning them down.

  


Miles is smiling like a fucking shark, but Alex can see his stomach muscles flexing and fluttering around shaky breaths all the same. "Oh, so we're playing a game then?"

  


_ I sure am.  _ He doesn't reply, cause now that he knows what he wants to do, what this whole thing is building to, he can feel determination settle hotly in between his shoulder blades, chased by a drop of anticipation. His inexperience would normally get him all nervous and jittery, paralysed by the fear of failure, but he's too into it for it to register, and most importantly, Miles is too.

  


He bends his head and plants hot, open mouthed kisses on Miles’ neck, dropping down to his chest, his abdomen where the muscles twitch with a little breathless giggle. He drops another kiss on his jutting hipbone, and then he’s right there, nosing against the hard ridge of Miles cock through the thin fabric. Miles all but pokes his eye out as his hips snap up with a gasp, and Alex moves his hands firmly on his sinewy hips, holding him still, as he traces the shape of Miles' cock with his mouth. He leaves wet, panting breaths in his trail, and when he reaches the head he closes his mouth around it, tongue flashing over the tiny spot of precum leaking through Miles' pants. Miles hisses as Alex's tongue fits into the slit, pushing the coarse fabric over it, and he makes amends by letting spit slide out of his mouth, soaking through the cotton and making everything wet, and slippery. 

  


He can feel Miles' hips twitching under his fingers, aching to push up into his mouth, and he realizes with a start that he wants it too, badly. The slow, discovering pace helped him get acclimated, but now his mouth is watering at the thought of diving in, of sucking Miles down and licking him clean until Miles can't remember where he is, or what his name is. 

  


He abruptly shoves his hand inside, tugging Miles out with a fist firmly curled at the base. He is hot to the touch, tip peeking cherry red in and out of his foreskin as Alex slowly strokes him, watching dazedly as more precum glides down. He aches to taste it, so he does, lapping his tongue around the swollen head to catch it all, diving into the opening with zero barriers now, and Miles groans loudly with a curse, hand flying at Alex's hair, tugging. 

  


The sting rushes all the way down to Alex's groin, where he faintly realises now that he's hard as a rod himself, still fully clothed. He doesn't wanna pull his hands away from Miles, so instead he just slides his lower half further down the bed, until he can slowly rut his own stiffy against the sheets.

  


The tug at his jaw hasn't lessened, not even incrementally, so Alex chases it, letting his mouth fall open so the head can slide in. He sucks experimentally, letting the heady taste flood against his taste buds, and his hips grind down harder against the mattress. There's a slight hint of panic in the back of his head now, 'cause Miles is barely in his mouth and it already feels too big, too close to the back of his throat when he bobs his head down. He's already making sounds too, little wet sucking noises where his lips work, and he has a pretty good idea of how it'd sound further inside, how he'd gag and drool and moan around it. It's heavily embarrassing how the thought alone makes him fucking leak in his jeans.

  


Miles, to his credit, doesn't push him any further, letting Alex set the pace as he stares with his head reclined to the side, gasping softly at the rub of Alex's lips, hand merely locked around Alex's hair, not applying any pressure. Alex hopes it's how he generally conducts himself, and he's not just doing it because he thinks Alex is  _ inexperienced _ . He’d be dead on, of course, but Alex doesn't need to be fucking coddled about it. 

  


He sets his jaw even wider open, and he lets himself slide down until Miles nudges at the back of his throat. He gags, predictably, spit running down Miles' shaft and onto his fingers, still stroking at the base. Miles curses again above him, and Alex can feel the little tremors on his hips which he's undoubtedly holding from shoving upwards. Alex does it once more, just to test himself, but his throat still constricts uncomfortably, so he abandons it for good. Miles' entire body is shaking with jittery energy, his other hand scrunching up the sheet in his fist, and Alex's brain scrambles for something else, something he could do that would be guaranteed to feel good, because he may never have touched another man, but he's  _ been _ touched plenty, and he knows what feels good for a bloke. He comes up for air with a wet pop, a tiny thread of spit still connecting him to Miles' cock, and he gathers it on his tongue, bends down to lick a long deliberate stripe on the underside, tracing the jagged line of the vein pulsing there. He reaches down to Miles' balls, and carefully seals his mouth around one, sucking gently while his hand comes up to stroke the head, soaked with spit and precum, and Miles does buck upwards then with a hoarse moan, sounding utterly ravished.

  


"Oh, that's it Al, that's fucking it. You just know how to do it baby, don't you? You always fuckin' know, always-"

  


Alex licks back up, reaching the head again, and his hand moves down to substitute his mouth, fondling and rubbing at Miles' sac while he starts sucking at the head earnestly again, trying to get Miles to blow. He desperately hopes he does, because he's embarrassingly close himself, humping the mattress faster and rougher in tandem with his working mouth, and he can't fucking come first when he's not even the one getting sucked off.

  


"Yeah that's it," Miles gasps again, looking at him with blazing eyes. Both his hands are in Alex's hair now, holding him steady around his leaking cock. "Look at you, so fucking gone, aren't you? Humping the bed just from sucking me off? It's 'cause you were fucking made for it, Al, that mouth is meant to be fucked." He leans forward abruptly, sitting up on the bed to hunch above Alex, mouth so close to his ear now that Alex can feel the words vibrate right into his stomach, lips tingling from where his mouth glides up and down, up and down, and it's not  _ fucking fair _ because this started as Alex's game, with Alex in control, and now he's trembling in the cradle of Miles’s body all the same.

  


"I'm gonna teach you, you know, how to take it down your throat," Miles rasps hotly into his hair, and Alex's hips stutter against the sheets. "I'm gonna teach you, and then I'm gonna fuck that pretty little mouth like you want me to."

  


Alex whines around his cock, whole face burning up with lust and shame, and his hand skids up Miles' waist for purchase as Miles sucks in a breath and comes, shooting hard and long inside Alex's eager mouth, down his throat. Alex gasps, gags on its salt, and as Miles' fingers twist tighter in his hair he's dragged almost forcefully along, spurting inside his jeans with a long, shuddering moan, muffled by Miles' twitching cock. He gives a few final abortive little thrusts as he feels Miles' spunk leak down his chin, and then he finally releases him from his mouth, gasping for much needed air.

  


They stay in that position for a good while, Miles panting like a racehorse where he's still curled around him, and then his hands, still fisted in Alex's hair, tug him up into a messy kiss. Alex moans brokenly into it, and he swears he dribbles out just a tiny bit more in his pants when he feels Miles lick into his mouth and over his chin, tasting himself.

  


They collapse side by side afterwards, letting their lungs settle. Alex is quickly becoming viciously jealous of Miles now for being naked during their little tableau, even though he specifically orchestrated it, because he feels like he's sweated through every article of clothing on him, and the stickiness is already beginning to dry out in his underwear. Miles, by comparison, looks perfectly pristine sprawled out next to him, apart from the flush across his chest and his cheekbones, and a light gleam of sweat.

  


"How the fuck do I always end up the one covered in filth, ey?" His voice sounds wrecked, and he feels his pulse jump at the sound even though he really should have expected it. He hopes no one asks why his voice sounds like shit in the studio tomorrow.

  


"Dunno," says Miles, and at least his voice sounds wrecked too. He turns his head to the side to plant fleeting little kisses to Alex's sweaty neck. Alex giggles despite himself, lifts his shoulder weakly to cut off his access. "Maybe you crave it subconsciously."

  


Alex scoffs, getting up from where he's reclining to discard his drenched shirt, and unbuckle his jeans. "Well, right about now I'm very consciously craving a fucking shower."

  


"Me too," Miles yawns behind him. "Too bad we can't get in together, 'cause I'll probably be knocked out cold by the time you get out." 

  


Alex pauses from where he's carefully stripping off his underwear, turning to narrow his eyes at Miles’ prone form. Miles just smiles at him, casually rubbing a hand across his chest, and Alex can feel his resolve physically crumbling.

  


They do end up in the shower together, Miles snogging him up against the tiled wall, and as Alex runs his soapy hands down Miles' back it's very easy to convince himself that there’s no James, no Owen, no one else in the house, and they’re absolutely and utterly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me @gasdancer !!


	9. clartè

"Have you ever been with another bloke?"

Miles looks up from where he's rifling through James' camera. It's a complete non sequitur, disturbing the buzzing silence of the grove surrounding them. The two of them are lounging in their usual green patch, located just a few minutes away from the studio. The recording session was immaculate today, and after lunch they’d bounced off on their bikes, leaving everyone else behind. It had started to become the norm, and Alex was enjoying it immensely. Officially, they claimed that it was to soak up as much of the scenic French landscape as possible and make the most out of their stay in the countryside, but they somehow always ended up with their eyes closed, hands and mouths working deftly against the beating August sun.

It was happening more and more as the days went by, consuming most of their free time, and while they were both becoming incredibly familiar with each other's bodies, Alex kept feeling like Miles was always one step ahead of him, always knowing where to touch, where to put his mouth to drive Alex mad. At first he hadn't thought much of it, chalked it up to Miles being brilliant at yet another thing they shared, and he just lay back and enjoyed it.

That was, until yesterday. 

There'd been a techie in the studio with them, helping fix up some issues with the microphone. He was polite with all of them, but with Miles he'd seemed... exceptionally so. Alex could see the attraction plain as day in his body language, in his coy smiles, in his over-the-top laughter at Miles' silly jokes. It wouldn't have mattered, it shouldn't have, but Miles had responded instantly to it, leaning up against the studio wall with his unmistakable flirting bravado. Miles hadn't failed to notice the advance, or hesitated to respond to it, and suddenly Alex was struck with a question that had, somehow, never occurred to him during the long days they'd been sharing a bed.

Alex had never been with a man before, and somehow he had naively assumed that the same went for Miles. Since then though, he couldn't shake the possibility that maybe Miles had been one step ahead in more ways that one.

Miles, back in the present, was lighting a cigarette resting on his lips, letting the camera dangle from the strap around his neck. "What's the matter, Al," he teases, "jealous you weren't me first?"

Alex sticks his tongue out at him, because of course he isn't, apart from the fact that he sort of _ is _ , feeling bitterness swirl in his gut that he isn't the first to discover Miles like this, the way Miles did to him. 

Miles grins at him, flicking ash on the dirt. His legs look ten feet long where they're sprawled lazily next to him, and Alex extends a hand to toy with Miles’ tied shoelace. "It doesn't really count as 'being' with a bloke I suppose, but I did end up snogging a lad after a gig once, back in the early days." Alex tugs, untying the knot. "It were alright, but he were too shy for anything more than that, so." He lifts the camera in a flash, takes a quick picture of Alex where he's lying on the grass. Alex gives him the two-fingered salute, despite feeling the corner of his mouth quirk up. "It's just-" Miles pauses for a long while, like he's searching hard for the correct words. It's very unlike him, Alex thinks as he lifts himself further up on his elbows to get a better look at him. Miles never falters on the right thing to say.

Miles shakes his head, like he's snapping out of a reverie, and refocuses his gaze on Alex, eyes drifting across his face. "With girls it's just easier, innit?” He says with a half-shrug. There's no…hassle."

Alex smiles, despite himself. "Am I a hassle then?"

Miles takes another picture, but Alex can see him return the smile behind the camera. "Worth every miserable second."

Heat spreads down Alex's neck at that, but then Miles asks: "What about you?"

Alex stares at him for a second. "You mean, had I ever been with a bloke? 'Course not, mate, I think me blowjob skills more than demonstrated that the first time." An issue of the past, thankfully. Miles did end up teaching him how to take it down his throat, and he hasn't looked back since. 

“Right, but like,” Miles says, “you must’ve thought about it before.”

Alex shrugs, looking down at the white shoelace between his fingers. “Well, I hadn’t-”

Suddenly, his mouth stops working. He  _ hadn’t _ , he knows very well in his head that he hadn’t, but saying the words out loud seems to act as a spell, unlocking his subconscious, and all at once he’s flooded with memories so violently he’s almost knocked back onto the grass.

‘Cause there were  _ moments _ . Moments in Sheffield clubs, where he was just so  _ eager _ to talk to that particular bloke in their friend group, so thrilled to find he also liked music, or Sheffield Wednesday, or whatever other common interest, to the point where the tips of his ears got hot. They were always followed by that irrational stab of anger every time the bloke’s girlfriend showed up, stealing his attention away and leaving Alex stranded with his drink in hand. It was ‘cause he’d found the lad interesting, and he’d wanted to talk, Alex used to say to himself. It was only about really intensely wanting to be his friend, even though the feeling was different to how he felt with Matt or Nick, even though he couldn’t stop staring at the bloke’s arm muscles, peeking through his polo.

Oh, God. Was that what it really was? Was he really this blind?

The whirlpool is dragging him down further, faster, and he can feel a cold sweat breaking down his spine, incongruous with the heat. It wasn’t just strangers, was it? He can feel his cheeks tingle with the ghost memory of kissing Andy on the cheek when they were sixteen, giggling like an idiot and feeling his stomach tying into a knot for no discernible reason, getting a thrill of excitement every time Jamie gave him a piggyback ride, and he could wrap his arms over his wide shoulders, that feeling of his heart speeding up like a marching drum when he first saw Miles play on stage-

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He'd really been taken since the beginning. The first time they'd met, Miles had been a bit aloof, stoned off his tits as he later found out, but Alex hadn't been deterred; quite the opposite. He'd watched him play before that meeting, and he'd seen him command the stage even as a guitarist, and then when they actually spoke to each other he hadn't fallen all over himself trying to suck up to Alex, or impress him, thinking he was some big deal. Alex had been so utterly engrossed, it was like a coin flying to a magnet.

He'd approached Miles to teach him a guitar solo, he thinks with a flare of heat blooming in his cheeks, but suddenly it was all too clear that it had little to do with the music. Jesus, he had wanted this since the first moment Miles had introduced himself.

"Oi oi! Yer off into space again, Al!"

Alex's focus centers abruptly on Miles, who's looking at him quizzically. "Sorry, I-" he clears his throat, blinks a few times as if waking up from a deep, disorienting nap. It’s like he's not even sure where he is anymore. Miles’ eyes are still on him. "I thought about it." His voice sounds sandpaper raw. "I just don't think I realised."

Miles smiles sweetly at him, and something in Alex's chest concaves when he scoots closer on his hands and knees, planting a velvet soft kiss on Alex's mouth. Alex barely closes his eyes, lets them rake over the blur of Miles' dark eyelashes fanning on his cheeks, the aquiline cut of his nose. When he pulls back with another toothy smile, Alex understands. He understands why he was the one to break the dam.

"Well," Miles coos, "glad I got to pop that cherry as well, then." 

Alex groans loudly, while Miles laughs and laughs, and then he waits for him to settle as he lies down on his back, eyes scanning over the spotless sky above. "When did you start thinking about me?" 

He's not quite sure he meant to ask it, brain rushing forward before his mouth had time to catch up, but it's out nonetheless, and he turns to Miles, suddenly very anxious of what the answer could be.

Miles supports himself on one elbow, looks down at him, and the word  _ angelic _ vaguely floats around Alex's brain, settling like a golden mist. "Remember when we wrote Meeting Place?"

Alex nods. How could he not? That was one of the turning points that led them here, the first song they fully co-wrote. It was the first time Alex knew he'd stumbled onto something important. "We were writing that, y'know?" Miles says, lifting his hand to play with a strand curling next to Alex’s ear . "And the verses kept flowing on the paper, and it were like...we were one person in that moment, following a single train of thought, and it all came out so fast. Suddenly it was all there, our own song in black and white, and it came about so naturally and so effortlessly, and I looked up to you, and-" his eyes are scorching on Alex's face, and Alex feels breathless, weightless, like they're both hovering off the forest floor. "You were so excited. Your face lit up, and you smiled and your eyes got even bigger and brighter and I-". His hand slips down to Alex's cheek, tethering, and Alex leans into it as if on command. "I wanted to snog ya senseless."

Alex might have laughed under different circumstances, but at present he can only stare up, marvel at how the sun filters through Miles' messy hair, and turns it into honey gold. His voice barely comes out as a whisper. "Why didn't you?"

Miles smiles at him, shrugs nonchalantly, but all Alex can see is the soft veil of melancholy in his eyes. "Didn't think you'd want it. Wasn't eager to get decked in the face."

Alex doesn't pause to think. His hands are in Miles' nape in a second, and then he's hauling him down, kissing him like he's dying and Miles has the cure under his tongue. Miles responds instantly, crowding Alex with his body and slipping his tongue eagerly into Alex's mouth, and  _ fuck,  _ it took them all this time 'cause Alex was a clueless knob, but he's on the same page now, and he won’t waste another second of their limited time.

When Miles moves down and takes him nimbly into his mouth, all he can do is throw his head back and moan, while all his thoughts coalesce into a single, deafening stream:

_ I want it, I want it, I want it- _

\--------------------

The strangeness of it all settles in his head much later, when him and Miles agree they’re sufficiently sunburnt and fucked out and they decide to ride back in the burnt orange hue of dusk. 

When they arrive at the front porch, and Miles’ presence isn’t close enough to distract him, his brain scrambles to process, but he isn’t sure he’s capable of fully connecting the dots. Is he just repurposing his old memories to fit into his current situation? Or has he been attracted to men all along? His love of women isn’t a lie, he knows that much at least, but he’s not sure how to reconcile it with this new revelation. Perhaps he’s just...an extraordinarily randy bastard. 

He looks to James and Owen, lounging at the patio table along with other people from the crew, having set up an early, haphazard dinner. James’ curls are as unruly as ever, dark and coiling, and he has a mustard stain on the side of his mouth from the sandwich he’s eating. Owen’s sunglasses are sitting crooked atop his head, and the sun has brought out the hundreds of freckles dotting his pale body. Alex peers at them, and he tries really, really hard.

Nope. Maybe he’s not that much of a randy bastard after all.

They sit down alongside them, and Alex fills his plate absently, still caught up in a sprawling maze. It doesn’t make sense. He likes men, but not nearly enough to be gay, and he loves women, but not enough to keep him from looking at men, too. He’s met enough people that swing both ways, on tour and in wild after-parties, and he’s pretty certain he’s not like  _ that _ either. For all he’d like to claim he’s the typical debauched rockstar, he knows that deep down he longs for monogamy, and commitment, and security, and all the sappy things Miles would probably roll his eyes at.

He turns to watch the man in question, laughing heartily at something Owen is telling him, cold beer in hand. For Miles it’s probably much easier, he envies. He tunes into his desires like sliding the needle on an old, trusted FM radio, and then he charges towards them with wild abandon. If he didn’t know better he’d say Miles is one of those people he’s seen on tour as well, blindly led by drugs and raw lust, but he’s been inside Miles’ head, peaked into his innermost thoughts. On a fundamental level Miles is more like him than he might like to show, sensitive and fragile. The difference is that Miles knows what he wants, because he understands how he feels.

Alex doesn’t understand shit. His thoughts are a scattered mess, and all he can understand at the present moment is that, where he looked at the other lads and felt nothing but friendly affection, he looks at Miles holding the beer bottle and laugh and all he wants is to clamber onto his lap and kiss him ‘till his mouth is raw.

Maybe that’s all he needs in the end. Tap into the feeling, and follow it, like Miles does. He’ll have time to worry about everything else when they all return to reality.

“How about we all go for a pint tonight?” James asks him, effectively bringing him back to the present.

“A pint?” He asks. “In that same little pub we went the first week?”

James makes a non-committal sound around a mouthful of sammie. “It were a nice place, right? And hey,” he mumbles with his mouth half-full, nudging Alex playfully with his elbow, “maybe this time you’ll both get lucky.”

Alex snorts out a laugh. If they do go out, he’s pretty certain Miles won’t be looking at any French birds. In fact, he thinks while heat curls in the hollows of his ribs, this time he’ll make  _ bloody _ sure of it. He steals another glance at Miles, and he finds him looking back already, smiling distractedly at whatever the techie besides him is saying.

“You know James,” he smiles, “I think that’s a marvelous idea.” 

\---------------------------

Miles is ready before him, again. 

His knows his time management leaves a lot to be desired, but he hates to be reminded of it by an annoyed Miles, already dressed and looking sharp where he’s leaning on the doorframe. He’s in all black today, tight polo leading to even tighter trousers, and if Alex had more time on his hands he’d have already sucked him dry up against the door, others be damned.

Except, he doesn’t have time. It’s truly not his fault the dinner got him so drowsy he had to take a long nap, and then a shower to freshen up, and then carefully brush his teeth. It’s perfectly reasonable, and  _ human _ -

“The entire house is waiting for ye, Al”

He huffs out an annoyed breath, rummaging through his clothes even faster. He needs to find something nice, he thinks anxiously, something  _ more _ than nice, something impressive, that will make Miles forget there’s even other people in the pub, and he needs to find it now-

His hand closes over a pair of trousers at the bottom of the pile, and he freezes. He looks at the garment as if he’s seeing it for the first time, even though he knows perfectly well that he brought it with him, shoved into his suitcase by Alexa because  _ “it’s going to look fabulous on you, love, if you’d just be a little bold.” _

As it happens, bold is exactly what he’s going for.

“Actually,” he says, turning sheepishly to face Miles’ exasperated expression, “I might take a while longer. Why don’t you guys go ahead, and I’ll catch up to ya? I remember where the place is.”

He flashes what he hopes is a convincing smile, and Miles just shakes his head dramatically, going off into the corridor with what suspiciously sounds like “fucking hassle”. Alex waits a few minutes to hear the tell-tale sound of the front door opening and closing, chorus of voices fading out into the night, and then he turns back to the drawer, steeling himself.

When he emerges from the bedroom five minutes later, clad in a white t-shirt and tight red jeans, he feels the night’s possibilities throbbing in his every molecule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bar of Sexual Awakenings strikes again folks, who knows what it's gonna inspire this time (◍•ᴗ•◍)
> 
> Come talk to me at @gasdancer!!


	10. jeu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long wait, I know, but I made up for it with 5k so :3
> 
> eenjoy

He practically feels the needle scratch when he walks through the door, every patron turning their heads in sync to look at the newcomer. Some merely glance and look away, others scan his outfit admiringly for a few seconds, and some, namely two girls at the bar, openly ogle. He doesn't have the nerve yet to look for the gaze that interests him.

The place is exactly as he remembers it, quaint and quiet, although somewhat busier than last time. He looks around the small tables, stalling until his pulse stops being audible to his ears. To his satisfaction,  _ Charlotte _ and her little flock of hens are nowhere to be found. Behind the bar there's an older gentleman as well, instead of the girl that fancied him. It's almost like a clean slate. His eyes dart quickly to the other groups, barely registering any faces, and then, finally, they settle on the one he cares about, at the table in the far corner of the room. James and Owen are smiling appreciatively, clearly taking in his attire, but Miles is simply staring. And staring. His hand is hovering in front of his face, holding a peanut that never made it into his mouth.

His pulse is beating out a conga.

He sends out a small wave to James and Owen's direction, and then strides over to the bar, leaning over on his forearms to order. The guy moves aside to fill his pint, and he keeps his eyes carefully trained on him, stifling the temptation to turn and see if Miles is looking still. He taps his finger on the wooden surface, and then he's flooded with awareness of his own body, how he must look leaning over the bar, legs and bum curving invitingly in his tight trousers. He very deliberately keeps his eyes staring ahead, and then he slightly arches his back, feeling the fabric hug his body even tighter. He hopes he doesn't look utterly ridiculous. He really hopes Miles is looking.

When he turns around with his pint in hand, his eyes zero in automatically, and Miles is thankfully, blessedly, still transfixed to him, except now he's composed himself better. Alex can see the faint blush high on his cheekbones, and the way his mouth quirks into a smile. He moves towards him as if through water, the chatter and noise fading away into a distant thud, pounding to the beat of the blood hammering in his temples. When he arrives at the table after what feels like an eon, he notices for the first time that there is no extra chair. 

"There he is!" Owen says cheerfully as Alex carefully sets his pint down on the table. "We almost thought you'd fallen asleep again," he says with a smile as he turns to the adjacent table, clearly looking for a spare chair. Before he has time to locate one though, Alex feels warm fingers curling around his forearm, and suddenly he's pulled down on Miles' lap, bum perched on top of Miles' wiry thigh, legs nestled in between Miles' own, like a tiny bird in a cage. 

"There you go," Miles beams up at him, voice thick as honey, and at this distance his cologne is filling Alex's nostrils, surrounding him like a warm blanket. It smells incredible, bright and musky at the same time, and Alex wants to get closer to the source, bury his nose behind Miles' ear where he knows he likes to put an extra drop, like his mum taught him. Miles' hand withdraws from his arm, but it doesn't stray for long, moving to splay at his lower back, anchoring him. "Comfortable?"

There's a bit of a wicked gleam to his eyes, the one he usually gets when they're alone and well into it, but right now they're decidedly not, and Alex can sense James and Owen looking. "Yeah," he manages. "Thanks."

Miles just smiles at that, still staring up at him while his fingers begin a slow dance over the thin fabric of his shirt, little finger just barely glancing under the hem. It's too small, too unimportant to get him going, but Alex can't stop himself from squirming slightly all the same.

He hears Owen sigh, and then the scraping of a chair on the wooden floor. "I'm bringing more alcohol."

Alex finally tears his gaze away from Miles' to take a gulp of his beer, hoping it will cool down his heated cheeks. James is across from him, still smiling slightly while his forefinger toys with the peanut bowl. "Love the trousers, Al. I'm guessing it’s Alexa's attempt to make you a proper boyfriend to a fashion girl."

Alex's heart skips in his chest at the mention. He doesn’t love being confronted with the fact that he's made Alexa an unwitting accomplice to another person’s seduction, but then Miles' hand glides lower, molding right at the swell of his buttock, and every other thought dissipates into thin air.

"Just thought it'd be a bit presentable, is all," he says breezily. "Besides, we're in France. Fashion hub, and all that. I wanna blend into the culture." He bends slightly forward to steal a peanut from the bowl, and as he does, his body centers on Miles', and his bum brushes over Miles' crotch. He freezes, but before he has time for conscious thought his body decides on its own, and when James turns to look for Owen at the bar, his hips move slightly downwards, gently but purposefully rubbing himself on Miles' groin. He's not quite sure if he hears Miles' breath hitching, but the fingers digging harshly into his hip are hard to miss, or misinterpret.

Owen returns to the table with a round of shots and a chair, Alex notices. The dilemma flares up in his head, both sides making convincing and unappealing arguments at the same time. He takes in the chair left beside him, and then the feeling of Miles’ warm, inviting lap as they all pick up their drinks.

"To a great record!" James grins.

"And to a great night." Miles adds, and when their glasses clink together in salute, Alex feels his gaze hot on the side of his face. He downs the shot eagerly, then promptly grimaces at the awful taste, spluttering. Tequila, straight. “Bloody hell, Owen.” he manages through a cough, as everyone around him laughs, Miles’ chest shaking with it against his ribs. He springs to his feet, and doesn’t miss how Miles’ hand automatically chases after him. “Hold on,” he rasps, “I’m getting the next round, before Owen poisons us.” He barely dodges a peanut projectile from Owen, laughing all the way to the bar. He was planning on ordering another round of shots, but as he smilingly flags down the bartender, he feels another course of action formulate in his head. He quickly runs through his options as the man approaches him.

“Faites-vous des cocktails?”

When he returns to the table, he’s basically capsizing under the weight of the tray, bearing four colourful drinks of various shapes and sizes. He smugly deposits them on the table, and he starts distributing.

“For our wonderful producer and drummer, who’s keeping everything together, a Screwdriver,” he enunciates, setting the drink in front of James, who shakes his head with a smirk. “Hard to keep anything together when I’m dealing with a control freak who chooses me drink,” he mumbles while taking a sip. Alex ignores him, moving to the next glass. “For Owen, our touch of classical influence, an Old-Fashioned.” Owen raises his glass with a giggle, and promptly downs half of it. “And for Miles, our resident rascal...” He almost struggles to maintain eye-contact, but when his eyes flit over to Miles, he finds him watching raptly, corner of his mouth already tugging up as he scans the glass Alex picks up, recognising the cocktail a second before Alex gets to the punchline. “...Sex On The Beach.”

James hoots behind his drink, and Alex feels a blush unfurl in his cheeks as Miles picks up his drink, toasts and deliberately takes a sip, without breaking eye contact for a second. He sighs loudly after swallowing, and leans back, every inch of him looking decadent, like a young king on a throne. “Thank you, Alex.”

It’s strange that the sound of his own name would get him so hot and bothered, but there’s a certain quality to it every time Miles says it in full, instead of calling him “Al”. Something in the way he breaks up the syllables, the way he emphasises the “x”, the way he enunciates it so starkly like he’s enjoying every letter rolling off his tongue, sets a thrill shooting down his stomach, like an exploding firework blossoming in the sky.

He can’t sit on Miles’ lap again, he realises weakly. He might do something very public they’re both gonna regret. 

He slides in the spare chair, but makes sure to scoot it as close to Miles as possible, so their thighs are practically pressed together under the table. Restraint is well and good, but there’s a plan in motion here, and he isn’t about to go fully off course.

“What did you get?” Miles drawls as he spreads his own legs incrementally, denim rubbing on denim. Alex coyly lifts the wide rimmed glass. “Margarita.”

Miles hums in acknowledgment, leaning closer. “What’s the connection, then? Sweet and salty?” Alex shifts closer, blood swirling in his veins like the liquid in his glass. “Sure, I suppose. A bit more of the salt, perhaps,” and then something dark and hot overtakes him, and with barely any forethought he lifts the glass to his lips, licks half the salt off the rim in one long swipe of his tongue, eyes never leaving Miles’. Miles tracks the movement, something hungry flashing in his eyes for a mere second, and his hand drops off under the table, curling possessively on the inside of Alex’s thigh, just above the knee.

The night passes in a daze. 

The drinks keep coming, James brings Jagermeister shots, which give Owen the idea for Jagerbombs, which devolves into a drinking competition between Owen and Miles, getting them red in the face and shouting jubilantly at each other over the other cheating, although Alex isn’t sure how that would even be possible in a drinking game. More alcohol flows in between, making Alex all loose and giggly and brave, dissolving his nerves like turpentine stripping away layers of paint. The next time he gets up on unsteady legs to bring vodka shots, he returns to plant himself squarely in Miles’ lap again, winding his arms around his neck. James and Owen are talking animatedly about something he can’t quite focus on, everyone else in the pub seems absorbed in their own little bubble, and Alex feels his valour return, surging up his spine. He wiggles a bit, ostensibly to get comfortable, and Miles hisses deliciously against his jaw, steadying hands flying to his hips in warning.

“Wha’?” Alex says as innocently as he can muster, words coming out thick through the alcohol in his system. “Summat wrong?”

His eyelids feel heavy, but still he can see Miles’ blazing eyes, inches away from his own. “Who would have told me,” Miles murmurs, fingers sliding over his waist, hooking under the waistband of his jeans. “Alex Turner is a bloody tart.”

Alex giggles, lip caught in his teeth because, well, he is, isn’t he? He’s doing all this to provoke Miles, rile him up, in hopes that he will take him home and wreck him, and that is pretty much the definition of a tart. In a more sober state the term would get him all flustered and indignant, but he’s too drunk to care, too drunk to pretend not to enjoy it.

Miles’ other hand is petting his thigh, clad in the red fabric, and Alex sighs quietly at the contact, feels goosebumps rise on his leg in every place Miles is touching. “D’you like ‘em?” He whispers against Miles’ ear, hand curling on Miles’ bony shoulder. Miles hums affirmatively, and God they must be so obvious to anyone bothering to look, all curled up into each other, groping at each other’s bodies, but Alex couldn’t bring himself to care at gunpoint. He huffs a ragged breath on Miles’ ear, inhaling his cologne and his sweat and his shampoo like he’s trying to get high. “I wore ‘em so you could take ‘em off me.”

Miles goes very still under him, and Alex's heart jumps to his throat. The only indication that Miles didn’t suddenly turn to stone is his ragged breathing sailing against Alex's neck, and suddenly, without warning, he's surging to his feet, Alex practically falling off his lap. "Well, lads, I think we're going home." His voice is steady, the way it gets when he’s set on something, and he hastily fishes out a few crumpled Euros from his pocket, slapping them on the table before James and Owen’s bemused faces. The next thing Alex knows, he’s being yanked forcefully by the forearm, barely avoiding crashing into the other chairs as Miles all but drags him towards the exit.

It's raining outside, he acknowledges dimly when they all but race to the main road, Miles leading him intently by the arm. The rain whips into his hair, his skin, quickly soaking through his clothes, but Alex can barely feel it. His focus is on Miles, setting the pace in front of them with wide strides, rain plastering his clothes onto his lean muscles. Miles' hand is searing a five-fingered brand on his forearm, palm hot and greedy. He's not really tugging anymore, since Alex is moving just as eagerly in the same direction, but then Alex plants his feet on the slippery ground, yanking his arm backwards. Miles falters at the sudden inertia, turns back to look at him. His eyes are bottomless pools, nearly pitch black in the darkness. He doesn't let go of his arm. Want throbs so intensely in Alex's gut he feels like he's gonna keel over.

"Something wrong?" Miles quips, but his casual tone is belied by his breathlessness. Alex can see every dip and swell of his sinewy torso through the wet fabric of his shirt, can just barely make out the two hard peaks of his nipples poking through. The rain isn't cold at all, but he shivers all the same. God, he wants to touch, and kiss, and lick, he wants  _ so much _ his brain short-circuits.

"No." His voice is raw and husky from the alcohol, and he sees Miles lick his lips at the sound of it, gaze fixed on his mouth. Jesus, his jeans are so tight and wet they mold to every inch of his legs, and Alex can clearly see he's already beginning to stiffen against his left thigh. This game has set him off, just as much as it has Alex, and the knowledge gives him a rush greater than any vodka shot ever could.

His lips curl into a tiny smile of their own accord. “But, what if I don’t wanna come?”

Miles’ stares at him for a long, long moment. Alex is sharply reminded of a documentary he saw a while ago, of a King Cobra circling a rat, devouring it in one quick snap of its jaws. The cobra is a cannibal snake, able to swallow down pythons and other cobras like they’re nothing, so the poor rat never stood a chance, yet it tried to struggle all the same. The cobra had almost seemed amused to Alex’s eyes as it slithered towards it with cold dark eyes, reveling in its terrified squeaks.

Miles takes a step towards him, and another, until their noses are practically touching. He feels like he’s a foot taller, rather than just a few inches when he looks up at Miles, raindrops forming a current on the narrow bridge of his nose, cascading down Alex’s face. When he talks, his voice is rumbling low, nearly inaudible under the loud patter of the rain on the ground.

“It’s either that, or we fuck in the middle of the road, where all of Noyant-la-Gravoyère is gonna hear ya. Your choice.”

The rain is rushing in Alex’s ears, in his brain, a great whooshing sound that drowns out everything but the fact that he’s suddenly hard as a rod in his too-tight jeans, and fucking right in the middle of the road doesn’t sound so bad, no really, not if it means getting Miles’ mouth on him immediately-

He nearly goes into a dash, clasping Miles’ hand hard as he bounds towards the studio, and he swears he can hear Miles laugh behind him, running in tow.

When they reach the front lawn Miles apparently decides that they are close enough to safety, or maybe he just stops caring altogether, because his mouth crashes onto Alex’s, kissing him like he wants to bite his lips off, and Alex moans embarrassingly loud, arms locking around him like a vice, mapping out his drenched body over the thin cotton. It’s almost like when they sneak into the shower together, he thinks foggily as he eagerly slides his tongue in Miles’ mouth to taste the alcohol on it, except never felt this close to unraveling when pressed against the cool tiles, Miles teasingly nipping at his neck. They kiss for what feels like an eternity, Miles’ fingers carding harshly in the wet strands of his hair, and he gasps, slotting his hips around Miles’ leg to rut hungrily on his thigh. Miles’ breath hitches at the contact, and he locks two possessive hands on Alex’s bum, as if he needs to secure him. As if Alex is fucking going anywhere.

“Y’know,” Miles pants as Alex keeps riding his leg like a dog in heat right in front of their front door, “since we don’t have the ingredients for Sex On The Beach, how about Sex On The Driveway?” Alex isn’t sure he has the brain power needed to process, but thankfully Miles decides for him, all but hauling him towards the back of the building, where the farms are. Alex flashes back to their first day, when they came here exploring, playing with the chickens, blithely unaware about what was coming towards them. Well, at least he was. Miles wanted him even then, even before that. Miles had known he’d wanted him since they’d huddled together over a smudged notepad in Alex’s apartment, writing about tiny Liverpool bars and first loves.

He latches onto Miles’ neck from behind, licking every rivulet of water he can catch, hands twisting under Miles’ polo to finally grope at the wet, rippling flesh underneath. It throws them both off balance, hobbling on the wet grass, and Alex gets fed up with it, fast. There’s a small alcove to their left, adequately hiding them from the main road, and without any further deliberation he’s fisting his hands in Miles’ lapels, backing them up into the little nook, back connecting with the rough surfacing of the wall as Miles crashes on top of him. 

Their mouths return to each other as if they’d never left, and now Miles is moaning too, bending down to paw at his thighs. Alex cranks open an eye to look down between them, and they truly do make a sight: they’re both glaringly hard in their tight slacks, and his trousers are so drenched they’ve turned into a dark crimson, clinging uncomfortably to his legs and crotch, tugging at every inch Miles is kneading with his hands. He impatiently moves his own hands to his fly, aching for relief, but Miles tuts at him, pinning his wrists to the wall. He still looks gigantic to Alex, lethal, even as he drops to his knees to make quick work of his button and zipper, dragging the wet fabric part-way down his thighs, along with his soaked boxers. Alex hisses as his hard cock makes contact with the open air, twitching slightly at the falling raindrops. Miles’ eyes are glinting like obsidian, irises swallowed up by his lust-blown pupils, and thank  _ fuck _ he’s on the same page as Alex, because he skips any and all teasing, gripping the base and wrapping his lips firmly around the head, swallowing him down in one go.

Alex whines loud enough to wake the dead.

He tries to bury the sounds on his forearm, biting down right where Miles had his palm curled, but they escape all the same, muffled and needy. Miles’ hot mouth is a stark contrast to the surrounding chill, and he gasps again and again as he drives his hips further in, letting the head nudge at Miles throat with every thrust. His other hand flies into Miles’ wet locks, scrambling for purchase right as Miles’ lift to his lips, locking him back into the wall. His bum scrapes uncomfortably on the uneven surface, but it doesn’t matter, not when Miles lets him fall out of his mouth, hand picking up the slack deftly as he moves his tongue further down, mouthing hotly at his balls. Alex shakes and twitches, pleasure tearing through him like a razorblade slashing through skin, and it almost hurts how much he aches this, how much he aches to finish in Miles’ mouth, down his throat, after what feels like a lifetime of teasing, starting even before he left the house tonight. 

Miles is insistent, wrist twisting on the upstroke, tongue tracing warm circles right between his legs, sliding just a scant inch behind his balls to lick at the sensitive stretch of skin there. A rippling moan shudders through him, and he tries to pry his legs open even further, give Miles better access where his face is all but smushed on his hip, but his knees are locked, trapped by the bunched jeans at his lower thighs. He writhes all the same, trying to get Miles’ tongue to that place again, but then Miles is pulling away, panting. His face is flushed all over, mouth pink and swollen, and Alex yearns to fall to his knees and kiss him again. He almost begins to, but then Miles’ words shock him still:

“Turn around.”

He freezes, gaping at Miles’ reddened face. The sentence rattles around in his brain, like a live grenade that’s been freshly dropped off, clattering on the ground moments before the explosion. Miles’ wet hair is curling at all angles, framing his face sharply and making him look a bit manic. As if possessed with a sense of dramatic irony, lightning flashes around them, illuminating Miles’ sharp features. It disappears as quickly as it arrived, sinking them into darkness again, and a few seconds later the thunder comes, rumbling and rattling inside Alex’s bones. 

_ He- he means- _

Miles’ hand is still curled loosely around his prick, and he doesn’t say anything more, neither pushing or pulling away. His palm remains there, unmoving, and in the haze Alex can only think that he wants to thrust into it again, that he wants Miles’ tongue back on him, back...back where it was before.

The muscle on his hip twitches under Miles’ hand, and he carefully presses his thumb on it, stilling him.

Miles is still breathing heavily, chest puffing and deflating rhythmically though his shirt, and there’s something in his eyes where he’s looking up at Alex, something like a plea, like he wants to do it just as much as Alex wants him to and-

Alex wants him to.  _ Alex wants him to. _

Miles shifts slightly on his knees, still bulging at the front of his jeans, soaked through, and his voice is a ragged mess when he says “Al, please-”

Alex is turning to face at the wall so quickly, the alcohol in his system surges up with a vengeance, and he nearly topples over, but he quickly braces his hands on the wall, shutting his eyes tight. Miles is instantly on him, and Alex swears he hears him moan, feels it reverberating through his whole body as Miles’ hands cup his rear, caressing him, and then he bends forward to bite at the flesh of his ass, applying just the barest amount of pressure. Alex hears his pulse drumming in his ears, deafening, and his waist bends of its own accord, seeking Miles’ hands, his mouth. 

It’s at this point in the proceedings where Miles infuriatingly decides it’s time to take things slowly, and he keeps working Alex like this for a spell, warm hands kneading his cheeks, while his teeth press soft bites along the curves, down to the junction where they meet his thighs, licking over the faint teeth marks and sighing against him like he’s in fucking heaven.

Well, Alex isn’t.

“M- Miles,” he manages, because he’s overly aware of how hard and throbbing he is still, how exposed, how desperate he really is for what Miles asked. “Please, come on baby, _ please _ , just do it-” 

The first drag of his tongue against his hole has him yelping so sharply his voice cracks. He barely has time to filter through the embarrassment before Miles does it again, and again, lapping him up like he’s some especially tasty lolly, and Alex fights hard not to cry out, sharp jolts of ecstasy careening through his body at every swipe. Miles tries all sorts of tricks with it, like he’s done it all before, vertical licks, circular motions, even a slight invasion past the tight rim, and after a while Alex is pushing back shamelessly, going up on his toes with a trembling curse to get more.

His hands drag against the wet wall ineffectually, scrambling for purchase while his cheek is pressed on the rough surface, but he can’t, can’t stay still when Miles’ mouth is setting his every nerve on fire, blaze roaring from the center of his body outwards, and  _ holy fuck, _ why haven’t they done this before? If he’d known this is how it felt he’d have straddled Miles’ face that very first day, when Miles slithered into his bed. Miles drags him backwards, sealing his mouth over his pucker and  _ sucking,  _ and dear God, maybe he  _ will  _ be heard by all of Noyant-la-Gravoyère, but he doesn’t much care. Let them all hear. Alex has always liked sharing his joy.

He’s fully grinding backwards now, head fallen between his linked forearms pressing on the wall, and in between strangled moans he blearily opens his eyes to look at what’s happening underneath: Miles barely visible between his legs, as open as they can go shackled by his trousers, and right in between, his throbbing erection, dripping with rainwater and precum and spit, bobbing to the sway of his body. His hand flies down, wrapping a tight fist around himself, and fuck, that’s all he needs, just a few hard passes around the head while Miles is licking him open, just a little more, a little-

Miles moans around him, like he’s getting as much out of this as Alex is, and the vibrations shoot inside him like lava, filling him up, choking him, and he bursts in long, pulsing waves, coating the wall in front of him, groaning and cursing and sobbing, and for a few seconds his brain switches off, leaving him in the dark.

Through the fog, he dimly registers Miles getting up from his haunches, dragging Alex upright, and then the metallic sounds of a button and a zipper being dragged down, and out of the way. He fits his back against Miles’ front with as much coordination as he can muster through his stupor, and Miles starts tossing off roughly against his lower back, mouth closing around the shell of his ear, bodies sliding wet together.

“Fuck, Al,” and his voice is clipped, tight, the way it gets when he’s about to come, and he really is, he’s about to come just from eating Alex out into a coma. He lets his head fall back into Miles’ shoulder with a sex-stupid smile, as Miles gasps on his neck, “thank you, baby.”

Alex must have heard him wrong through his trance, there’s no other explanation, because it almost sounded like Miles thanked him for letting him give Alex one of the most eart-shattering orgasms of his life. He can feel himself still, fluttering weakly, soaked and slippery in a place the rain isn’t touching, and he pushes back languidly, aligning Miles’ cock with the cleft of his ass. “Thank me?” he slurs, rocking slightly just to let Miles feel it, and he does, moaning brokenly as his fist speeds up, cockhead wedged in between Alex’s cheeks. Alex turns his head, faintly feeling the torrents of rain falling on his face, and his voice drops to a whisper. ”Thank you.”

Miles’ body seizes, moaning sharply as his fingers digging into Alex’s ribs where he’s holding him, and then Alex feels it, warm spurts dripping down his tailbone, his bum cheeks, all the way down to his inner thighs with the wash of rain.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, holding onto each other, but when he fully comes to, eyes focusing slowly on his surroundings, the rain has slowed to a drizzle and he realises he's chilly. He shivers, disentangling himself from Miles with slow, wooden movements. Miles’ face looks how he supposes his own does too, tipsy and fucked out and exhausted, pink mouth puffy and protruding, and he bends forward lazily, capturing his bottom lip in a slow kiss. Miles hums, softly kisses back for a few seconds, and Alex doesn’t pause to analyse the heady, unfamiliar taste of his mouth. That’s an issue to worry about tomorrow, when he’s sober and in possession of his faculties.

He moves through the rest of the night as if through a dream, distantly aware that they’re moving inside the house, toweling off, and heading to Alex’s bed. His last thought before sleep claims him, curled under Miles’ arm, is that maybe, for once, he may not need to worry about anything. 

They sleep so deeply they never hear James and Owen arrive, giggling against the dead of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you could say Alex's ass is particularleh tasteh
> 
> also im horrible at writing endings for smut chapters, like. they came. the end.
> 
> come talk to me [@gasdancer !!](gasdancer.tumblr.com)


	11. angoisse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another delay 'cause I'm the wooOooOooOorst, but hey, you'll only have to suffer one more time :))

The air around him smells like wet soil and sunshine, as Alex sets his mug down on the patio table. He sprawls on one of the plush chairs, outstretching his legs until his ankles start to tug painfully, and he inhales.  _ Petrichor,  _ his brain helpfully supplies. That's what it's called, the pleasant scent of soaked earth after the rain. Alex always hated gloomy weather, one of his major gripes with life in England, but every stormy, depressing day became almost worth it for what came afterwards; this comforting smell in the air, amplified by the stillness of the world and the ensuing sun. Of course, the sun was never much of an ingredient back home, and compared to the toasty August rays of France, England literally pales in comparison. Here, the morning sun coats him like a cosy blanket, surrounding him in the earthy smells of the forest, and as he takes a large sip of coffee, relishing the flavour, he allows his eyes to slip closed, and the moment to completely engulf him.

A few moments later he hears the door swing open and shut, and then a familiar hand is gently ruffling his hair. He smiles, sinking back into it momentarily, and then he opens his eyes to Miles sitting beside him, perfectly soft and pink with the remnants of sleep. 

"Mornin'", Miles rasps, bringing his own coffee to his lips. "You got up early."

He had indeed. Despite the heavy drinking and their other nightly adventures, Alex had actually managed to wake up at a decent time, likely drawn by the allure of a quiet morning after the rain. Miles had still been sleeping soundly, arm tucked under the pillow like a halo around his shaggy head, and Alex had placed a feather-light kiss on his bicep and crept out of bed noiselessly, so as not to wake him.

"I did," he hums, sliding his legs to the side so they can rest closer to Miles'. "Just wanted to take the day in, and I didn't wanna wake ye. Didn't wanna risk hangover wrath," he smirks.

Miles snorts, and his own leg shifts closer too, so that their feet are a breath away from being tangled together. He adores this feeling, he realises with a start, the seamless, unforced domesticity. He could easily imagine spending a lifetime here, with the person he loves. "Don’t have much of a hangover, to be honest. Maybe arse licking is a natural remedy."

Alex nearly sputters out his coffee, feels the blush creep up his cheeks as he turns his head away to laugh. "Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no real heat behind the words. That is what happened after all, and it may be a bit too late for him to play blushing maiden with Miles. He'd have thought the last of his embarrassment oughta have washed away last night, like his release sliding away with the rain.

Miles is laughing too, but there's something lingering in his eyes along with the mirth, right beneath the surface. "I just woke up and you weren’t there, and I thought...” He taps the rim of his mug and shrugs casually, not quite meeting Alex’s gaze, and Alex understands with a hollow thud in his chest. He brings his chair closer, its legs screeching on the gravel, and he lets his head settle against Miles’ shoulder, looking out into the tranquil blue sky. “Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you?”

He feels Miles breathe out a small laugh above him, and then he’s gently resting his cheek on Alex’s head, slightly rubbing against his hair. He closes his eyes, inhaling the soft smell of Miles’ t-shirt, and as they repose like that the seconds trickle by, and he’s nearly carried off to sleep.

The trance is broken by the door clicking open again, and Alex recognises Owen’s dragging footsteps without opening his eyes. Another little piece of familiarity, how attuned he’s become to everyone’s presence without having to look, simply by the way they walk, or the small sounds they make as they move around in the next room. Owen plops down on the chair to his other side, and Alex already knows he’ll be carrying a large plate of breakfast, even before he opens his eyes to confirm, shifting slightly against Miles. “Morning, Owen. Sleep well?”

Owen simply gives him a thumbs up over a mouthful of croissant, leaning back on his chair after what looks like a challenging swallow. “Like a baby. I swear guys, this place is perfect,” he sighs. “Time does fly when you're having fun. I can’t believe I have to fly back to stupid Canada in three days."

The number drops inside his mind like a stone skipping on a lake, rapidly disturbing the stillness before disappearing, sinking under its own weight.

He’s known, of course he has. There's been a cruel part of his brain that he can't turn off that's been counting every day, filing off every finished song, ticking off every completed task, calculating the hours till the end. He knows their time here is running out, but he'd carefully, masterfully compartmentalised the fact, relegated the voice to the very edges of his consciousness, where it wouldn’t much interfere with any of the fun. Miles hadn't mentioned it either, and they’d both been flowing through the days like the end was always at a safe distance, but now Alex knows it had been gnawing at Miles too, simply from the way he feels him stiffen against his side. He sits up abruptly, feeling his head swim all of a sudden. There are fine cloud lines dotting the sky, he realises. They were casting such a subtle white hue they all but blended into the blue.

Miles’ shifts next to him, gaze lowered into his mug like it contains the secrets of the universe. “We all have to return to reality I suppose, ey? It was fun while it lasted.” His tone is very flippant but he’s not lounging anymore, shoulders locked forward with invisible tension. 

Owen is looking back and forth between them, looking more than ever like a deer caught in the headlights, and his throat catches in the middle of an inhale, like he’s trying and failing to begin his sentence. “Well, it’s not like it’s  _ all _ ending, right?” He half-laughs, clearing his throat. “We have post-production, and rehearsals, and all that. We’ll get the gang back together again.”

Alex nods. “Yeah, ‘course we will.” He smiles tightly. “In London.”

London, where everything is gonna stop dead in its tracks. London, where they’ll be surrounded by familiar faces, where everyone will know who he is. London, where he’ll finally see Alexa again. He’s missed her very much, but the thought of her has been increasingly bound with a feeling of dread low in his stomach, a sick thrum of anticipation. He thought this would be a clean separation and return to the status quo, but now the mere idea has his head spinning like he’s caught in a maelstrom.

The breakfast drags on in uncomfortable silence, and Alex can practically taste Owen’s relief when a disheveled James comes out to join them. He sits down with a a toothy grin, which falters only when he takes a gander at the awkward faces around the table. “Oh no, don’t tell me you’re all hungover. Come on, we’ve been doing too well to fuck it up on the last song.” 

The stone keeps sinking in Alex’s chest, pressing heavy under his ribs. He hadn’t realised they’d be on the last song already, thinking there might have been adjustments to make on the others still, or takes needing to be repeated. He is half tempted to lean on the hangover excuse, push for an extension, but he knows he can’t, not really. He’s still in the middle of tour with the Monkeys, and he has no leeway for more time. It is what it is. It was coming from the start. Besides, three days is a massive amount of time, if you know how to make good use of it. None of it is over yet, he thinks as he looks over to Miles’ pinched features. It’s not time for goodbyes just yet.

\----------------------------

As if time has decided to enact a personal vendetta against him, becoming painfully aware of their limited days only serves to make them race faster, like water slipping through his fingers even though he does his best to seal them shut. The hours pass terrifyingly fast, the sun dipping under the horizon before he even gets his bearings for the day, leaving him anxious about going to bed, and even more anxious about waking up to it all over again. The clock has become his most intimate confidant, and his arch nemesis. 60 hours left.

It all mounts and mounts, and it sets Alex’s pulse racing even harder with each passing minute, to the point where he fears his heart is going to jump out of his mouth. It doesn’t affect any of their remaining studio sessions, as James might have feared, but Alex feels the nervous energy vibrating between him and Miles, bouncing off the plexiglass. He keeps catching himself staring at his face even more than usual, as if he’s worried he’s suddenly gonna evaporate, cutting their time even shorter. 

48 hours left.

As if the universe isn’t plotting to his expense quite enough, with each passing day Miles gets more and more careful, setting Alex’s teeth on edge anew. He hasn’t exactly withdrawn, or pushed Alex away, but Alex senses a deliberation in his every move, a slight pause before a touch, more and more averted gazes every time Alex tries to catch his eye. He feels like he’s being weaned off, like Miles is trying to ease the inevitable landing, and it relieves and frustrates him in equal measures. It’ll probably be easier for them to move out of this in increments, make the transition back to normalcy in measured steps instead of doing it cold turkey, but something in Alex rebels against that, loathes it. He’s not a fucking child that needs to be cut off sweets, and he’ll be going back on the road after this, while Miles is returning to the Wirral to meet up with Joe and Greg. Neither of them has a clue when they’ll manage to see each other again. He wants desperately to cram as much touching as he can, but to his horror, the more the need ratchets up, the more he finds himself becoming stupefied, and very stolen second just serves to paralyse him further. 

24 hours left.

The world has been sprinting forward by the time their final evening arrives, but then everything grinds to a halt, about 10 hours before the end. 

They've cranked open the last of the expensive wine bottles, sprawled on the sofas along with James and Owen, Alex trying to smile through the impending feeling of doom. After a while Miles lies with his head on Alex's lap, something he wouldn’t have even hesitated to do five days ago. Alex has just started to fiddle with the hair curling at his temples when Owen loudly sets his glass down.

"Alright, it's lame staying in on our last night here. Who's with me for drinks at the bar?"

James acquiesces enthusiastically, already hopping to his feet in search of his shoes, but Alex's stomach dips uncomfortably. He doesn't want to go out at all, not when it means moving from this arrangement, when it means exposing themselves to other people and restricting their movements even more. Miles is certainly going to jump at the idea, he thinks with a flash of panic, and he speaks up in a rush. "I wanna stay in, actually."

Miles' eyes shift to his face from below, penetrating. Alex watches him back, willing him to understand without having to say anything else.  _ There are a billion pubs in London, but we’ll never get to be alone like this again. _

Miles blinks slowly, as if he’s reorienting himself, and then he turns decidedly towards Owen and James. “Right, I think I’ve had enough wine as it is, as well. You lads have a good one, though.” Alex expects them to put up a fight and nag them into following, so he steels himself for a more forceful rebuttal, but James and Owen simply exchange a look. “Right, well, we’ll be off then.” James declares simply. “We’ll probably stay until late, so don’t wait us up.” Owen simply nods cheerily, and then from one moment to the next they’re out, shutting the front door behind them and submerging the house into deafening silence.

Alex blinks, and then looks down at Miles again. He didn’t expect this turn of events at all when the night started, didn’t expect to get alone time with Miles this early in the night (9.5 hours left), so now he’s suddenly thrown off, numb with possibilities. Miles is still looking at the closed door, profile stark and regal in Alex’s lap, but before Alex can move his hand to trace his nose with a careful finger, Miles is up, and off of Alex’s legs. His hair is mussed from lying down, and Alex aches to sink his hand into it, mess it up further. “Music?” Miles asks cheerfully, and before Alex can process or reply, Miles is already moving away, strolling to the dusty record shelf to rifle through the vinyls. There’s something in his posture, something in the jittery way he’s handling the records that makes Alex get up, shift closer to get a better view of him. His fingers look as graceful as ever when they finally pick out the desired vinyl and fit it onto the player. The record starts spinning under the needle, and gentle guitar fills the room from the mounted speakers, followed by the warm voice of Françoise Hardy. The song is wistful, melancholic, and Alex finds the same mood etched into Miles’ features when he turns around to face him. There’s something else too, flashing into Miles’ eyes, and Alex puts the pieces together.

Miles is nervous.

It’s so shocking, that Miles Kane would feel any sort of trepidation where Alex is concerned anymore, that for a second Alex doesn’t even hear the question addressed to him:

“Will you dance with me?”

Alex gapes at him, as the words slowly begin to take meaning, and morph into a language that he comprehends. “Wha-- here?”

“No, I thought we’d do it in the bathroom.”

Alex snorts on autopilot. “Piss off.” Miles’ proposition swirls around his brain like molten caramel, thick and sugary, the last thing he expected to hear after three days of distance, and his feet guide him of their own accord, pausing only when Miles’ face is so close he’s a blur of pink and brown. He can still clearly see his eyes, laden with anticipation, and then he wraps his arms around Miles’ shoulders, resting his face on the sweet smelling crook of his neck. His eyes slip closed when he feels a shaky exhale against his ear, and then Miles’ arms are cording around his waist, securing him. They start to sway to the crooning voice, and it becomes obvious that neither of them is familiar with this type of dancing outside of awkward school events, but Alex feels tingly and light-headed all the same, like he’s 14 and about to have his first kiss.

“What does it say?” He asks against Miles’ shoulder, when the silence becomes unbearable. “Oh, you know,” Miles murmurs into his hair, “the usual, lost days of youth and all that.”

Alex smiles, fighting against the hollow feeling in his chest. “ _ ”If only they were seventeen” _ , ey? No one accused us of bein’ original.”

“No,” Miles sighs, fingers digging marginally harder into Alex’s shirt. “No, it’s all quite predictable, really.”

Alex’s head is swimming, partly because of the wine and partly because he feels untethered, even here in Miles’s comforting grip. His eyes open to take in the room behind Miles like he’s seeing the house for the first time, the beautiful rustic living space, the tall doors granting entry into the kitchen, and to his right the corridor leading to their little sanctuary. On the other side is the front door into the patio, and beyond are the great unexplored woods that sheltered them during many scorching afternoons. His chest fills with knives, slicing in and out of him until he’s left in tatters. He’s not quite sure what he means to say, what he’s even meant to think, but as always, Miles plucks the sentiment right out of the deepest folds of his brain, and articulates it before he’s even reached in to bring it to the surface. 

“I don’t want to leave.” His voice is shaky, and Alex feels it pulse down his own throat, constricting it until he can’t breathe. “I don’t want us to stop.”

He doesn’t have the words to answer, because if there’s one thing he knows right now is that he doesn’t wanna stop either, not now or ever really, and the concept is both terrifying and unattainable. They both have other lives in the UK, vastly different to the ones they’ve carved out in this little parallel universe, and he knows that as much as it is gonna hurt now, it’s gonna be a thousand times worse if they try to end it after it gets too deep.

The record has transitioned into the next song, a slightly brighter tune, but Alex feels the hole in his chest spread and concave as he brings his mouth to Miles’, kissing him deeply, trying to communicate everything his broken brain refuses to put into words. Miles kisses him back eagerly, fervently, hands clutching and pulling at him so that he’s lifted on his toes, chasing Miles’ mouth again and again with his own, until his lungs wail and protest for air.

"One last night," he gasps into Miles' mouth once he pulls apart to suck in much needed oxygen, diving back in to taste him again. "Come on, one last time." He feels the desperation bubble under his skin, bursting through him like boiling water over the lid of a pot, and thankfully at that point Miles hooks his arms under Alex's knees, looping his legs around his waist before Alex collapses them both onto the floor.

“One last night,” Miles repeats raggedly against him, and Alex doesn’t dare open his eyes to look at his expression, merely locks their lips together again, grabbing fistfuls of Miles’ hair while Miles blindly but determinedly leads them over to the bedroom.

Alex tries really hard to absorb everything, to catalogue every little detail and tuck it away for safekeeping when he returns home, but still he barely registers when their clothes vanish, shirts hastily thrown across the room and trousers yanked off and discarded along with their boxers, leaving only the intoxicating feeling of skin on skin when Miles settles on top of him, covering him head to toe. Alex is extremely torn on whether he wants to kiss Miles or watch him, so he finds a sweet compromise, leaving his eyes half open when Miles bends back into his mouth, taking him in with all five senses.

Their cocks are both hard and sticky already, dragging maddeningly together where Miles slots their pelvises, and Alex can’t stop the little laboured breaths escaping him, doesn’t even wanna try. He moves his hand down to palm Miles, memorise the feeling of his girth between his fingers, but Miles doesn’t let him. Suddenly he’s gripping Alex’s arm at the wrist, pulling away panting.

“Wait, wait, hold on-” There’s something bright and mad in his eyes, the way he gets when inspiration strikes in the studio, or when the verse he’s writing finally clicks, and Alex can’t help the ensuing whine when Miles abruptly pulls away to rummage through his drawer, pulling out their small bottle of lube. They surreptitiously bought it one day from the local pharmacy, Miles making eyes at the girl behind the counter the entire time. When they got back to the studio Alex dragged him into the bathroom and gave him one of the most well-lubricated and torturous handjobs known to man, until Miles’ knees were shaking so hard he had to grab onto Alex for support. Miles is climbing back onto the bed now, knees bracketing Alex’s thighs, and he uncaps the bottle, dripping the last remnants onto both their cocks, making Alex hiss when the cool liquid makes contact with the swollen head of his erection, sliding down his shaft along with his precum. His hand moves to stroke himself reflexively, spreading the wetness all over his cock, but Miles is on him again, demanding.

“No, no, wait, let me, let me, babe-” and Alex barely has time to bask in the pet name, before Miles is grabbing hold of both his wrists, pinning them above his head. Their bodies align again, cocks sliding against each other, but this time everything is slippery and smooth, and Alex’s allows himself to moan openly, knowing there’s no one around to hide from today. Miles rocks his hips slowly, lightly stoking the sensation between them, and Alex gasps and writhes, arms flexing under Miles’ restraints. It’s good, of course it is, but this way of friction is frustratingly slow, and Alex can think of at least four more effective ways to get them where they need, but when he tries to manoeuvre his hips to nudge Miles along, Miles just uses his weight to pin him down again, eyes blazing like coals above Alex’s face, while his hips pump forward faster. Realisation knocks into Alex like a gale-force wind, nearly knocking him sideways. 

Miles isn't going for effective, or for fast. If this is gonna be their last time together, he is gonna make it  _ last,  _ however long it takes.

The thought makes his skin prickle with anticipation, and need, and something else he can’t quite place, and then he’s setting the soles of his feet on the mattress, getting the proper leverage to thrust back up against Miles, allowing their bodies to fall into a rhythm.

It takes horribly, exquisitely long.

It doesn’t take much for them both to break into a full sweat, bodies rabidly gliding on each other, and Miles keeps murmuring praise and profanities in between hungry kisses, slowly dragging him towards the brink. At some point Miles’s hand slides upwards from where it’s shackling his wrist, and their hands clasp together so hard Alex’s fingers go numb, but it still it doesn't feel nearly enough. “Please,” he chokes out, hips working furiously against Miles’, “please, let go of me hands, I won't do anything, I just wanna touch you.”

Miles gasps out a moan, and then suddenly Alex’s arms are free, unrestrained, and he wastes no time wrapping them around Miles’ back, fingers skidding along the sweaty skin. This new position brings Miles even closer, their chests sticking together, and under different circumstances it would have been disgusting, but Alex feels mad and feverish, and in this state it’s the best feeling he could ever imagine. They’re both moaning loudly now, unabashedly, and Miles spreads his knees further apart, sliding his cock harder against Alex’s, and Alex senses the scale tipping, inch by torturous inch.

During one of his teenage summers, he dove off a tall cliff into the ocean with Jamie and Matt, and the force had sent him deep down into the dark water, breath rushing out in a flurry of bubbles. He remembers how he had looked up at the surface, up at the broken up orb of the sun signalling his destination, and he had madly started kicking his legs to reach it, every muscle in his body srt on fire, lungs bursting with the lack of oxygen and water hissing over his ears, and the last few seconds felt like an eternity, vision blurring as he rushed up that final metre.

“Fuck”, he whines, hips bucking so hard he can feel them beginning to cramp, and Miles doesn't let up, slamming back with equal force. “ _ Fuck _ , oh my God, Miles, baby,  _ yes _ , just like that, just like that, I’m yours baby, make me come-”, and Miles growls, honest to God  _ growls _ , hair plastered to his forehead, and then he's bending down in one swift motion and sinking his teeth into Alex’s neck.

His head breaks the surface of the water, every molecule of his body screaming, and then air rushes into his lungs all at once.

His release rips out of him almost painfully, pumping out in-between their bodies and making everything even slicker, and someone is whimpering loudly like a wounded animal, but Alex’s brain is misfiring in all directions and he can’t quite tell who it is. Miles sobs out his name over and over, thrusting brutally, abandoning any and all finesse against Alex’s oversensitive groin, and all that escapes Alex’s addled mind is that this is how it’d feel like if they fucked.

Even if he had the brain power to examine that discovery, Miles stops any other train of thought by gasping out “fuck,  _ Alex, fuck _ -” like a plea, and Alex tightens his hold around him, pushing his numb legs to wrap around the back of Miles’ thighs to envelop him, drag him through the finish line. There’s one final, rough push that practically propels them up the bed, and Miles is coming too with a pained-looking shudder that Alex feels quaking in his ribs.

He doesn’t wanna move, and he’s not sure he could if he did. Miles’ chest is still heaving on top of his, head fallen on the crook of his neck, and they’re plastered together head to toe, glued to each other skins. Maybe if they stay like this long enough they’ll sink into each other until they’re impossible to separate, and everything would be solved with a neat little bow and a cherry on top. 

His breath rattles like machine-gun fire to his ears, and he makes a mental effort to stop himself, but the comedown is starting already, ten times steeper than the climb. His eyes fall to the bedside clock of their own accord, and he stares at it while his hands dig oval-shaped bruises into Miles’ skin.

8 hours left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song they are dancing to is "Ma jeunesse fout le camp" by Francoise Hardy, courtesy of the brilliant @singlepigeon 
> 
> final lap guys, who's excited? im personally shitting myself
> 
> come talk to me @gasdancer !!


	12. adieu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go! Final chapter, with a massive delay, but here at last!
> 
> I wanna thank everyone for all their amazing comments in the past eleven chapters. I honestly never excpected this response, you guys really moved me and kept me going through this whole thing, even though I felt daunted more times than I can count. Your words mean the world to me, and I hope this last chapter lives up to your expectations.
> 
> Special thanks to singlepigeon and tightredpants, who heard me vent about my horrible writing every single chapter and pushed me through. <3
> 
> Enjoy, and I'll see you at the Big Bang ;)

It's their last day in the recording studio in France. 

The sun is shining the same way, the heat is as stifling and sticky as always, but Alex feels cold nonetheless, shivers raising goosebump tracks on his skin. He is standing on the patio next to his made suitcase, staring at the plain as if trying to commit every last detail to memory, from the uneven peaks of the trees on the skyline, to the muted gray gravel strewn on the road. Maybe if he sets to counting each individual pebble he can buy himself some more time, even after their taxi arrives.

Funnily enough, it's the one day he's not late. His sleep had been fitful, broken up, and at around seven, when the sun had started blaring through the windows, he gave up entirely and disentangled himself from Miles' sleeping form to start packing. After their encounter - their  _ final _ encounter  _ - _ last night, him and Miles had dizzily roused to shower the stickiness off their bodies, and then they'd returned to huddle in Miles' bed, leaving the mess on Alex's to be dealt with tomorrow by the cleaning staff. It had felt very apt, that their final act of separation would be as selfish as their entire adventure.

At least, it was supposed to be the final act. They hadn't stopped kissing in the shower either, or after getting into Miles' bed, Miles gently pressing down on the wonky teeth marks on Alex's neck. He could justify it then, since it still counted as their last night together, and he fought tooth and nail against his heavy eyelids, until they eventually overpowered him. Alex lifts a hand reflexively, to trace the crooked indentations of the bite, but they're already beginning to fade away. He supposes he should be thankful that he won't be displaying a bruised hickey by the time he sees Alexa again, but something surprising in him is viscerally upset that Miles didn't bite down hard enough to mark.

His hand is in his pocket, fiddling with the buttons on his phone. He meant to call Alexa about ten minutes ago, but he's been stalling for no apparent reason, letting his mind drift out to the woods, to last night. He peers through the windows behind him, deflating somewhat when he only spots James moving around, gathering the last of his stuff. His eyes scan the visible areas, trying to catch a glimpse of Miles moving behind the panels, and he dimly realises he's been waiting here alone so Miles would come find him, like he always does.

Figures pass through the glass, the crew packing their final belongings and chatting with each other, but none of them are tall enough, or slim enough, or radiant enough to illuminate the entire living room. Miles is nowhere to be seen.

His eyes fall to the bikes leaning on the outside wall. Both of them are there, intact. Miles didn't have a last foray into the woods then either, at least not on two wheels. His fingers curl around the phone, hard enough that he feels the keys dig into the flesh of his palm. As if from somewhere far away, the chickens of the farm bawk ruefully, like a lament **.**

He pauses mid-step on the way back inside. His head turns slightly, as if to better capture the sounds of the pen, discern if there’s anything else lurking beneath to confirm his suspicions. He can’t make out anything out of the ordinary, but his hunch doesn’t abate so he strides around the corner, past the little alcove to the side of the house, and into the backlot that connects it to the farm.

He sees the chickens running around first, then the little swirling pattern of pellets on the ground, trailing all the way across to where Miles is leaning on the back wall. He’s still fiddling with a handful of them, and a cigarette is dangling from his other hand. 

They stare at each other, and Miles simply offers a tiny smile in lieu of a greeting. Alex suddenly realises that he didn’t consider things that far, and now that he’s actually found Miles he’s not sure what to say. Part of him wants to just walk over and snog him without a word, but his feet stay planted firmly on the ground. It’s like they’ve been edging closer and closer to an invisible border ever since last night, and the harsh daylight has only made it more defined. They're still here, but it's not the same anymore. He takes a tentative step closer, trying to mirror Miles’ careful smile. “Saying goodbye to our little friends, ey?”

Miles takes a puff of his cigarette, and when he lets out a humourless laugh the smoke gusts out of his mouth like the exhaust fumes of an old car. “Well you know me. Always the sentimentalist.”

“Well, that's no problem.” Alex says, feeling his heart jerk sickly in his chest, “If you get emotional I’ll comfort you, right?”

Miles stares at him for a long moment, cigarette eating away at the paper in between his fingers. One of the chickens trots over close to Alex’s leg, picking at the food on the ground, and Alex feels its frantic little movements slap against his calf. Miles’ eyes look ever more downcast as they trail over his face. “Right.”

Silence reigns again, and the bustle of the farm swoops in to fill it. Alex can’t begin to put into words how much he hates this, this gunge of awkwardness that has fallen between them and traps every word inside it. He wants to say something else, wants to leap over those three steps separating them and hug Miles tight, or soothe him, or cry, but something else entirely escapes his mouth.

"I need to call Alexa."

Miles blinks at him, his Adam's apple bobbing in a swallow, and then suddenly he's off the wall, carelessly tossing the rest of the pellets on the ground and ashing his cigarette on the wall. "Yeah, alright, I'll leave you to it."

Before Alex can retort, Miles is gone, striding around the corner with his shoulders hunched like he's being chased off. Alex stays staring after him, chicken gathering around his feet while his frustration escalates, vibrating in his limbs. Why the fuck would he even come back here if he was just gonna make things weirder? He ought to have stayed out front like a good little boy, and not made an even bigger mess of things. He rubs his face angrily, ruffling the hair at his nape and then he plods over to the side of the pen, slumping on the stacked logs packed there with an exhale that seems torn off his very soul. He starts filtering through endless alternatives of what he might have said, of what he might have  _ wanted _ to say, and the minutes pass until he hears the taxi honking, signalling the end.

\-----------------------

He’d always been fond of trains, more so than any other mode of transport. A train was more spacious, and allowed for more freedom of movement than the bus, and even though less efficient than the plane it afforded a much better view in Alex’s opinion, green pastures and grasslands a few feet away instead of miles down on the ground. He tries very hard to concentrate on this view now, aboard the Eurostar, but every golden field they hurtle past only serves to remind him of the distance he's putting between himself and the studio, at 186 miles per hour. He tries to calculate how much that is per second, but he was always kinda shite at maths, and the exercise only makes him more miserable anyway. 

He jumps when he senses someone sit beside him, half-hopeful, but he is faced with James’ warm grin instead. His camera is hung around his neck, and Alex can see the little display screen is on.

“I’ve been looking at all the photos and videos you lads have taken. They’re pretty sound, Al. We could do a little compilation video for when the album drops, like a backstage thing, what do you say?” He’s putting the camera in Alex’s line of sight, clicking through videos, but Alex isn’t in a particular mood to start reminiscing yet, not when every one of the moments captured on film is carved behind his retinas anyway. “Yeah, sounds good.” He gives a small smile, turning back to face the window. James was obviously expecting a more enthusiastic reaction, going by the way the camera stays suspended in front of Alex’s face for a few seconds, faint sounds of laughter still emitting from it. “Right.” James sits back, voice slightly deflated. Just another thing to feel bad about. “I’ll call up the editor, then.”

They don’t say much else during the ride. Breakfast comes, and goes. James stays beside him, and Miles never comes to sit in their booth, choosing to stay in a window seat across the aisle, listening to music on his headphones just on the edges of Alex’s line of sight. He fantasises about going over, curling into Miles’ side, and letting his scent and the train’s soft vibrations lull him into a nap for the rest of the journey. The mere thought comforts him somehow, so he immerses himself in it for way too long, staring at the side of Miles’ head, at the rounded curve of his ear, at the lines of his body where he’s slouching on the seat. He gets so caught up that he barely feels the train break speed, preparing to take them through the Channel and away from France once and for all. 

As the train starts shaking slightly, and fences start to fly past behind the window in Alex’s peripheral vision, Miles turns, and looks back at him. Alex barely has a second to wonder if he should look away, or run over, and then the tunnel swallows them up.

\-----------------------

London is gloomy, and loud.

It’s his predominant thought when they arrive, and when they step out into the station, people swarming in and out like ants crawling over crumbs. The bags feel heavy in his hands as they all prepare for the final goodbyes. James gives him and Miles a bear hug, congratulating them for an amazing effort, and Owen gives him a reassuring pat on the back when they hug, smiling comfortingly when they pull away. “See you in rehearsals, big guy.”

He watches as Owen rushes to catch up to his taxi taking him to his hotel, where he'll be staying for the night before catching a flight to Toronto tomorrow. James will be sticking around the station, waiting for the next train to Manchester in a few hours, so that leaves Alex and Miles alone when they trail to the main lobby. Alex could have gone home already, rushed onto the tube and not looked back, but his feet seem to drag progressively more as they reach the exit. He looks over to Miles, who's reading the timetables with excessive interest, and he decides he's had just about enough of himself.

"Wanna go out for a smoke?"

Miles gaze snaps at him, startled. "You're not leaving yet?"

"No," Alex shrugs. "Let's go out, ey? It's too loud in here anyway."

Miles nods, fiddling with the fag packet in his back pocket. Alex leads the way, feeling his skin prickle when it's hit by the chilly London air. They turn to a relatively quiet alleyway behind the station, dropping their bags, and Alex lights up a cigarette, mostly so he'll have something to do with his hands. 

"So-"

"This is ridiculous," Alex cuts off before he loses his nerve and everything spirals back into stilted awkwardness. "We can't go on like that, mate. I can't. You're too important for me to let it end like this.”

Miles' mouth stays agape, like he wasn't expecting the interruption at all, but then in a second everything turns softer, his guarded expression mellowing out into something unbearably sad.

"I know, mate. I just-" His voice wavers, and Alex feels a tidal wave roll and swell inside his chest, threatening to break. "I thought we'd fucked it up for a while there, 'cause last night it got a bit…intense, y'know?"

Alex knows. He wants to reach up and touch the faded mark on his neck again, the one that Miles granted him after he said "I'm yours" in the haze of the moment. It did get intense, and scary, and Alex has never prided himself in handling scary situations that well.

Miles rubs his eyes in frustration. "Look, at the end of the day, it was just sex, right? We don't need to make it so dramatic. Our friendship is what matters."

Alex nods, feeling light-headed, and hollow. "It is. And those two weeks were incredible, not just 'cause of the sex stuff, but because I got to spend them making music with you." His voice is coming out distorted to his own ears, and the wave rises up his throat, making his vision blur. "And I'll never forget 'em."

He barely makes it through the last word, voice shattering into a million pieces, and the tears spill over before he can contain them, but it doesn't matter because Miles is instantly on him, hugging him so tight he can barely breathe, and it's like his hands squeeze more out him, making his eyes overflow. 

"I won't either." Miles says next to his ear, wrecked, and Alex realises he's crying too, breath leaving his chest in jerky little sobs. "I love you very much, ok?"

Alex can't utter a word with the lump in his throat expanding, nearly suffocating him, so he just nods into Miles' shoulder with a shaky gasp, grabbing him hard enough to bruise while his tears soak through the material of his shirt. He can't let go, not just yet, so they stay like that for God knows how long, clutching each other in a tiny London alleyway, while the city rages just out of earshot. 

It takes forever for the tears to stop, and for the world to come into focus again. His lungs laboriously ease into a normal rhythm, and even then they disentangle themselves from each other very slowly, as if their limbs are fragile and might snap at the barest pressure. Miles' eyes are puffy when they finally face each other, and Alex fights the urge to kiss his eyelids by placing a small kiss on his hand, right in the dip of his knuckles. Miles laughs through his scratchy neck. "There goes grandpa again. You're gonna give me 20 quid for a lolly?"

Alex pokes at his cheek in faux admonishment, smiling as well, and just like that, all the tension that he's felt brewing under his skin for days lifts, like the clouds after a thunderstorm. Miles wipes at his face, fixing himself up with a full body shake, and it still aches when he picks up his bag again, but this time he feels like he's better equipped for it.

"Do you wanna accompany me to the train to Liverpool?"

Alex smiles even wider, wiping at his own sore eyes. "It'd be my honor, Mr Kane."

\----------------------

The adjustment period is a slow crawl upwards, but he makes it all the same.

August in London is bleak and depressing, albeit drier than the thunderstorms of July. It takes a few days for him to shift back into his old routine, to stop wandering around the empty house like a spectre haunting the place, trying to pass through corridors that don't exist anymore. Alexa returns from a visit to her parents a day after his own arrival, bursting through the front door with a huge smile and a leather travel bag hung daintily on the crook of her elbow. Something unravels inside him, a pang of longing and love tearing through the queasy feeling in his stomach, and he hugs her for a long time, clutching her until she starts laughing and dusting tiny kisses on his cheekbone. "Oh come on, love, it's only been two weeks. It's not like you went to war."

Maybe not, but he feels like France changed him as if he did. "I just missed you," he mumbles and presses a kiss on Alexa's lips. Her feline eyes peer at him, brow leaning towards a frown, but she just runs a comforting hand through his hair, fingers scratching lightly at his nape. “I missed you, too.”

Normalcy creeps back slowly, step by uncertain step. Unpacking his suitcase uncoils another spring of melancholy that takes all day to shake, and a stab of something else when he shoves the red jeans at the back of his wardrobe, but when he wakes up the next day to the regular state of his room he feels almost...at peace. Like he’s beginning anew.

Him and Miles maintain daily contact, which helps somewhat, even though it starts out kind of stilted, like they're both getting their bearings again in the reality of the UK. On the third day, he receives a text from James about how the material is looking great, and he types a quick text of excitement to Miles, asking how the Wirral is doing. Miles responds in less than ten seconds with a flurry of smiley faces in between sentences, and each consecutive one seems to plaster itself tighter onto Alex’s face. By the time he reaches the end of the message telling him everything is mega and that he’s writing some good stuff with the Rascals that he can’t wait for Alex to hear, Alex is grinning like an idiot at the tiny screen, wondering why he was ever cautious in the first place.

The steps may be small, but they cover enough distance that by the time ten days pass, and he starts packing his bag again, this time for a gig in Ibiza, he feels somewhat rooted, like he’s Alex of the Arctic Monkeys again, ready to dive back into the tour with the lads and Alexa at his side. Nothing’s changed, not really.

He's rifling through his tattered backpack for anything he may have forgotten to pack, when his eye is caught by a different object entirely. His little brown notebook is sitting inside, untouched since he plucked it out on a sticky summer day, trying to put his winding thoughts in order. He takes it out and shifts through the pages, littered with half-formed verses and choruses. He stops on the page where he’d last left off, and traces a finger over the angry little scribbles there. There’s only a handful of them scattered on the page, eventually abandoned for something much more preferable, like a sweaty, loud bicycle race in the middle of the woods with someone he was just getting to know for real. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, and closes his eyes. He can recall what it had felt like, the vague idea that had been leading him along, but now it’s suddenly awoken, taken form so clearly inside his mind that the song is all he can see, dead center in his mind's eye. As if moving through a dream he fishes out a pen from the backpack, and then his hand is gliding on the paper, like his half naked body sliding down French sheets.

_ “Made me kiss you, with a whisper.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at @gasdancer!


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